Wife, I'm getting older, and the flame of passion
flags;
my heart for you still thunders, but is muffled by stale rags.
I take you in my arms, my lusty wench, and then regret
that I've become a rag doll with no hardened bayonet.
Eight children did we have so long ago it seems a yarn
we tell now to each other while my socks you sit and darn.
Still and all, though parts of me no longer do their duty,
I'll not forget, but cry up thanks, for your eternal beauty!
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