old skin makes fun of lust

in its dying throes

it holds that ravaged instinct down

and clothes it with a rust.

Other avenues of life survive

inside that coat

where faded glory flourishes

and gently lifts the spirit.

"Do not stray" the skin will say

to feel a youthful pulse,

and if you do then clothe me well

lest you do repulse.

If you must unveil that rogue

that lurks behind its cage

beware my carcase my bestial friend

and accept the grace of age.