A Baud, to Cupid
Sweet the night
In which to plot
And carry out
To make of the eternal stars
But shy voyeurs
Who’re not our pars,
Jealous in their resignation
Envying the candle’s
Brief burning fuse,
Whose heat renders our tallow
Bodies into sallow ooze,
Whose quick wick hisses
Even now in languid kisses.
Yes!Yes! the bit-biting morrow,
Rude neighing cockerel,
Hot blooded youths to harrow;
You strutting Chanticleer
Have summoned up her demon father
Whose own windows on the world
Still are bleared by too much beer;
But hark, alarum!
Already his slue foot stomps on the stair!
Where is your golden belt?
Oh, brush your tousled hair!
Why are my shoes amiss?
When did I grow a beaded tongue?
O heaven help us,
But who could have yoked us in a thong?
Yet, do not let them be our master-
Disgrace, Confusion and Disaster-
No,no, be quick
Get to your Notebook
And look to cook
Ones and Naughts;
Be coy and mute,
O, be but Leonardo’s Mona Lisa,
A veritable tabula risa
And with all innocence be fraught;
Stow your new-found carnal knowledge,
For if Luck and Cupid smile on us
Then soon we both are off to college!
Now leave we off our morning song sung spritely
honoring our bow-bearing wee winged god,
And pray you may decrypt it rightly,
our sleepy sleepless sweet Aubade!
(And pitch a bawdy bard a penny
If merit in him you find any)