Women pen poems of me;
of how I put them in ecstasy.
They write of my gentle kiss.
They rave on my perfect obelisk!
Some muse of my tenderness;
Of how I touch them; my sweet caress!
While all these women faun and adore,
what drives me on? Why should I want more?
More women who’ll write poems of me?
Of how I put them in ecstasy?
Is it because of my swollen heads?
For so long blue, but now frequently red?
Is it my ego that’s to blame?
Or is it because I NOW feel no shame?
After 20 years of self-consciousness,
of being rejected, no sweet caress,
I’m finally at last, well appreciated.
Maybe it will take 20 more until I am sated …
or sedated.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 