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A Middle-Age Rake Reflects
On an autumn afternoon
I change my jeans
In a cold bedroom.
My glass has seen scenes
Where girls barely known comb
Their hair, and then depart.
How often have I thought
I ought to make a new start.
Yet soon my glass has reflected back
A girl doing her hair
Before she leaves me
In sheets where strangers meet.
Sometimes my lust is satisfied
But my heart cries
Out for love.
Yet I continue to buy
What can not be bought.
And perhaps ought not.
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