Suckling, an address to your poems
Oh crude poet of bawdy taste,
What verse is this, of habits vile,
Out upon it! A filthy waste,
That make such lust the common style.
It makes one such as me crack not a smile,
That promiscuity be valued so high
One must know these poems last not a while,
Such acts in God's eyes remain a lie,
If not such actions be left to die.
Yet weeps he still for olden days,
A feeling with which I sympathize.
Of better days, with happier ways,
A feeling that could hypnotize.
But those old days have been terrorized,
Left to rot by conserv'tive eyes,
Suckling, of opulent taste is ostracized.
But still to those days remains a tie,
With ardent fervor, let it never die.