Can the pantaloons of ardour ever be repaired,
after being torn to tatters in the turbine of despair?
Can the cuffs of youthful candour ever be restored,
after being decimated in the cyclone of discord?
Can the feathered caps of early joy be ever worn again,
after being tossed into the air by nasty evil men?
These and other questions I have often asked my shrink,
but he just tells me ‘Cut it out, and go easy on the drink’.