Urge and Purge

I ain't got the apparatus,
Looks, mettle or game
To give it a go
As a gigolo.

I ain't got the attitude,
Sound, fury or hair
To go real far
As a rock and roll star.

What I got is years . . .

A bona fide
Middle class
Working ass.

A gray and grizzled
Bean counter,
One prescription away
From legal blindness,
Logging credits in a ledger
Tethered to a metal desk
In a room with a view
Of the parking lot
Where pigeons shit
On my minivan
From nine to five.

But I was young once . . .

A fleeting moment,
True, but I've kept a vial.
Semen, beer vomit and sex
Sweat balanced by breast
Milk and testosterone
In a paste of high
Octane phlegm.
 
I've often the urge to swig it down.
To let the burn of the spirits
Cut years off my time line
Until I'm a hairy little monkey
Fucking anything that moves.

But that brittle old bastard,
Beat up satchel of bones,
Blood and skin persists
With his rubber stamp
Veto of fun, going on and on
Ad nauseam about the devil
You know and the grass
Being greener and all that shit

But there's only so much sand
Left in the hour glass and I swear
The fucking thing's got a leak.
My balls are getting bluer
Than Muddy Waters' soul
So I'm going to mug for Facebook,
Hold my nose and swallow.

What's the shelf life
On Viagra anyway?