The chameleon Casanova

 

In need of love too much,

he turned out such,

A benchmark of love he set

where even the most loving woman won’t bet

to raise the bar,

The nocturnal bird hunting far,

The quest for love best

putting woman after woman to test,

Lifting the drawbridge on one,

welcoming another for more fun,

Softening the brutal blow,

Searching new peaches with better glow

on a fresh face,

Leaving the old ones with teary trace,

Placing funeral wreaths on loves dead,

Their eyes seas sad,

Exploring feminine gold,

The macho spirit bold,

The digger with many affections sold,

An expert miner of love’s tenderness

ready to harness

and dig their tremulous softness

with the spade of his jagged breathing

on their trusting necks,--

sublime infusion of lust and desire

into the veins of love on fire.

 

His love’s insatiable greed

counting as prodigious feat and romantic creed,

Even in a woman’s presence

he feels another’s absence,

He goes with an ease no nonsense,

untouched by accusative conscience,

The enormity of bleeding wounds

and their ghastly vestiges,

or slayed feminine prestiges,

don’t perturb his soul

for the nastily played role.

 

A victim of the frivolous impulse,

naturally ready to repulse

any sense of right or wrong,

Around him the fog of illusions throng,

With a mad craze

he handles their florid rage,

He gives a purified rebuff

to all their lamenting, teary stuff,

He has storage bins

and decorated coffins

to keep, count, bury the loves dead,

Walks with a proud head,

He is reeling with anger vile

under that seductive smile,

Below that cuddling surface grace

he has feverish impertinence hidden on his face.