Adieu, fleshy cushion! O cleavèd orb,
This monster grief doth rend my breast apart.
No earthly sponge can all my tears absorb,
For you are more precious than my heart.
Methinks my posture to be out of whack
And my Sunday trousers seem scarce smart
With only my chin to indicate my front or back.
And, thoughtlessly, I should father a fart
‘Twould echo as a lover’s stricken sigh.
In dread, I conject that I might die
And my soul, thus maimèd, to heaven rise,
A freak afraid before immortal eyes;
Condemned to wander through celestial halls
A eunuch for want of ass, not balls.
Revised August 2013