The baroque sideburns sprouting from the head,
the iron mask of summertime. Brute power
disporting itself in an unmade bed.
That was amusement for an idle hour.
High romance was optional, the quick
highway to pleasure never too discreet.
Born into this, our own climacteric
season offered us tenderness in heat.
The flaming revolution that bore us
late to the door was already half burned out.
Others had scorched the cinder path before us.
There was no hesitation and no doubt.
The jug band with its good time urge to blow.
Our kisses soft yet hard. Such ways to go.
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