The Lusty Young - Poem by Robert Rorabeck
I imagine she used to be
But now she just floats around
The Christmas tree
And takes her top off
As I drink rum.
The penumbras of the ceiling fan
Moat our holidays,
And we don’t make a sound;
And yet we move
Just as cunningly as bush-hunters
With our pantomimes
Of the lusty young.
Comments about The Lusty Young by Robert Rorabeck
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You