Death and Taxes1931I was seventy-seven, come August,I shall shortly be losing my bloom;
I've experienced zephyr and raw gustAnd (symbolical) flood and simoom.When you come to this time of abatement,To this passing from Summer to Fall,
It is manners to issue a statementAs to what you got out of it all.So I'll say, though reflection unnerves meAnd pronouncements I dodge as I can,
That I think (if my memory serves me)There was nothing more fun than a man!In my youth, when the crescent was too wanTo embarrass with beams from above,
By the aid of some local Don JuanI fell into the habit of love.And I learned how to kiss and be merry- anEducation left better unsung.
My neglect of the waters PierianWas a scandal, when Grandma was young.Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid,And the bitter outmeasured the sweet,
I should certainly do as I then did,Were I given the chance to repeat.For contrition is hollow and wraithful,And regret is no part of my plan,
And I think (if my memory's faithful)There was nothing more fun than a man!
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