John Betjeman. Late Flowering Lust.

My head is bald, my breath is bad,    Unshaven is my chin,I have not now the joys I had    When I was young in sin.I run my fingers down your dress    With brandy-certain aimAnd you respond to my caress    And maybe feel the same.But I've a picture of my own    On this reunion night,Wherein two skeletons are shewn    To hold each other tight;Dark sockets look on emptiness    Which once was loving-eyed,The mouth that opens for a kiss    Has got no tongue inside.I cling to you inflamed with fear    As now you cling to me,I feel how frail you are my dear    And wonder what will be —A week? or twenty years remain?    And then — what kind of death?A losing fight with frightful pain    Or a gasping fight for breath?Too long we let our bodies cling,    We cannot hide disgustAt all the thoughts that in us spring    From this late-flowering lust.