"Life is what you make it",
as someone once observed.
A phrase that sounds a trifle glib.
But whoever thought it out had clearly never sorted out the vexing problem of adam's spare rib.
Chastity I take it,
is specially reserved
for those possessing moral fibers.
Mine failed me all the time and maybe that's the reason I'm a bah-bah, black sheep,
calling all subscribers.
Time and again,
and tortured with compression,
and swear that I'm sorry I've sinned.
Then when I think I've got the whole thing sewn up,
I'm must own up
everything that's blown up.
Freud could explain
my curious condition,
and Jung would have certainly grinned.
When I meet some slidish
that looks like my dish,
I'm sunk,
drunk,
gone with the wind.
How can I start fresh,
when the sins of the flesh override me?
Maybe some psychoanalyst might slap my wrist
and give a twist to what goes on inside me.
If I could fain
the glandular transition,
I'd settle for taking the veil.
Time and again I try,
time and again I fail.
Moral-less disparage,
a variable heart,
and say that it should be fenced in.
What they never think about effective means of casting out the
dear old die-hard
original sin.
Harbor boat is marriage (?)
free love is all our count (?)
and once you've plussed the 'bidden fruits off,
you nearly find that you've unwittingly set out to prove the age-old saying,
"better with your boots off".
Time and again,
I've tried to form a credo,
but somehow I don't seem to learn.
Just when I think my guardian angel's winning,
I go spinning back to the beginning.
I can't refrain
from firing the torpedo
a bath door, a head or a stem.
If a hit my quarry,
I can't feel sorry.
I'm hooked,
cooked,
turn to a turn.
Though I frequently wish I could my curb my condition reflexes,
I'll be damned if I sacrifice sugar and spice
to be precise nothing as nice as sex is.
I can't restrain
my treacherous libido
from slipping and tipping the scale.
Time and again I try,
time and again I fail.
