In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still nightWhen only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most milk fed heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the morons, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft as art
1 comment:
Here's the deal on veal for those who like to keep drilling down.
How big is the jump from reminiscing about and focusing on the delightfulness of nubile, milk-fed "girls" to stepping aboard the Lolita Express? Likely not as big a step as one might imagine. On the plus side, whether the desire to partake rests at 2 or a 10, it all involves the same hormones that got the train rolling to begin with. Not saying a hankering that remains in the lower range isn't normal for red-blooded men who love the female meat (especially so for adolescent boys), but it needs to be recognized and accepted for what it is if it's not to take off and actually land at some fantasy island years later where a groomed underage girl sits and waits.
Just sayin'
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