Creature of the Night

The calendar's ruthless march takes a toll
and each year there's less vinegar to piss.
Yet maturity may prove sweetly droll
and that I will accept in lieu of bliss.
 
That major muscle group bombast of youth,
wherein the vinegar was the fuel,
had me so embarrassingly uncouth
you'd have been better off with a mule.
 
Now, sometimes, towards the end of a day
that inelegant vigor seems misplaced.
Time is no captain's order to belay
and so, what I have left I must not waste.
 
     Therefore, of slumber, a sonneteer must care.
     Happily...it must be midnight somewhere!