The First Epistle of Silas Sparkhammer
To the Pool Sluts
(some imagery stolen from "The Aged
Shepherd to the Young Diana" by Achorus)
Euclid has not alone looked upon beauty bare.
Thy charms put a weeping Nefertari to shame,
and Cleopatra retires to shave her nose.
Liz Tayler and Oprah Winfrey, in submission,
buy ice cream and let themselves balloon.
Farrah Fawcett moves to Wisconsin to peddle cheese.
Pamela Anderson has half of Sugarloaf Mountain
(Colorado) implanted in each of her bosomy mounds
and only feels foolish; beauty, in that contest
long ago, where Helen defeated Aphrodite, is
unjudged, for Paris has seen thee. Venus
throws in the beach towel, and Helen, ever wise,
agrees that Menelaus is probably good enough for her.
There are not so many ships in all the sea
to celebrate beauty such as thee.
Even words do not suffice, and only the lonely wail
of a Tex Avery character can properly celebrate
thy hips, thy thighs, thy shoulders and strong arms.
But oh, I am aged, my schwing has schwung,
my courage is as feeble as my scrawny shanks,
my manliness falls even as my hairline climbs,
I have lived some hundred and sixty per centum
of a hero's life; I drool, I belch, I pick my nose;
when I fall to my knees to worship, it is arthritis,
not devotion, that keeps me there as long.
Fain would I learn those lessons of love
that only young and well-oiled water-babes can teach.
But my observance of love is in the breach,
and even Viagra won't help, comes push to shove.
Your attire, bikini-named, consists of three band-aids,
strategically applied to foil the censor's gaze;
I wear the noble Roman Toga, to cover up my faults,
and my laundryman hates my guts on washing days...
It is my sorrow that I did not stumble over you
long ago, when I was in my prime,
but you are young, haughty, and immortal,
and never shall come to fear my nemesis: time.