The mad poet of the glade
sits at leisure in the shade.

He spends the measure of his day
recalling women gone away.

Women dressed in barbed wire
who set his anxious heart on fire.

Women in satin, women in jeans,
women far beyond his means.

Women who sang, women who swore,
each the ******, each the *****.

Women of flesh, women of soul,
who touched his life, who made him whole.

Women of mind, women of heart,
all a mystery at the start.

Women who loved the words he said
and fell like blossoms on his bed.

Women whose dresses slid to the floor,
he lifted them up, he made them soar.

Women who sighed, trembled and came,
each one different, each the same.

Women lovely as springtime flowers
with silken skin and magick powers.

Women who lusted, women who dreamed,
women who loved him, women who schemed.

Women who broke his willing heart,
caressed his flesh, inhaled his art.

Women who finally came to fear
the cost of keeping him too near.

Women who all loved to play,
but could not bring themselves to stay.

Now he dreams those bygone times
and turns them into lines of rhymes.

Oh, the mad poet of the glade
he sits at leisure in the shade.
  - mce