I've always felt I was born in the wrong time and class. I envy the rogues of Balzac's novels who live their lives of sordid dissipation. Carousing and whoring gourmands who live for the night. It took an adequate inheritance and a disregard for public opinion.
Awaking a few hours before the night begins
with dried wine and whore juice on our chins
We lead a life of dissipation
we drink without cessation
Endlessly imbibing a libation
Combining food with fornication
Yielding to every temptation
Heedless of our souls’ damnation
Our pricks rise to a whore’s flirtation
And weep at her gyration
In her ass our cocks have their lactation
In her pooper there is no impregnation
Pleasure is our fixation
Cognac may decrease our duration
And deaden the sensation
But with enough adoration
Our staffs will reach ejaculation
We withdraw after our seeds’ migration
And with no regard for sanitation
We resume the culinary inhalation
And the alcoholic rehydration
And the whores resume titillation
Seeking still more compensation
And through extensive molestation
Our members gain some augmentation
But through excessive inebriation
With our brains mired in retardation
We can barely achieve penetration
And despite perverse stimulation
And a more than generous application
of saliva and escargot butter for lubrication
The night ends in flaccid frustration
And we stumble blindly to our destination
And find our beds amidst lower class privation
We enjoy dreamless hibernation
And spend the hours of the sun’s aspiration
Our consciousnesses’ temporary cessation
Bathed in urination, defecation and unknown vegetation
Then before dusk a reiteration
Awaking a few hours before the night begins
with dried wine and whore juice on our chins
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