The sun still sets, the stygian dark descends,
And time, relentless, steals my youthful zest.
No spells can hold the years, no spy transcends
The steely grip of age, on this sad breast.
Though spent my prime, and sullen are my days,
I'll steel myself against the twilight's call,
And find some solace in the sun's soft rays,
Before the final curtain starts to fall.
The steeple clock tolls out a mournful tune,
A tuneless dirge for spleens and spleens long past.
The styes of youth, where folly bloomed in June,
Are styes no more, their fleeting pleasures cast.
I spy the sunset, tinged with steely hue,
And sense the telnet tendrils of the night.
Though ten times ten years I've spent, and testing too,
Have lost their spring, I'll face the fading light.
The teletype's insistent, tense tattoo
Spells out the news in strident, styleless prose:
"The SSTs and tsetses, tell you true,
Are grounded now, their journeys at a close."
No teeny-bopper tunes for Suellen now,
No teeny-weeny tees or tulle to tempt.
Just suet puddings, sullenly, somehow,
And supple soups, till life itself is spent.
