Old Love

You can't impress me with that crap of yours
About the truth. I don't believe you'd know
Truth if it smacked you in that spot below
Where you've developed gonorrhea sores.
Sad platitudes are leaking from your pores
And you spread garbage everywhere you go,
All day, all night. The winds of Monaco
Are ripe with lost bets and disease-filled spores.

You told me we would win on thirty-nine,
But thirty-nine remained an empty slot
Through fifteen nights. The air was salty, hot,
And I turned forty. Someone drank the wine
I saved for celebrating in the shrine
Where I was promised new love. It was not.