Our pleasure is at the whim of weaker men.
Men who crumble at a scent in the
Air, or abandon that pregnant
Pause of gentle contemplation to
Suck on fire like a newborn to
The breast. Even those children of
Bad genes born know how to savor
The flavor and wait for the rest.
The masses turn Chopin into show tunes
And Magritte into street signs to
Be disobeyed and knocked down.
So I will sip slowly and hold in
The drag to protect myself and learn to
Enjoy what so many manage to destroy.
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