The King is Dead, Long Live the King
the rugged, virile and randy,
in readiness bugle the battle,
contestants for estral candy
in a stag's tutelary chattel.
expertise, vitality and size
all count, he finally standing,
excites her ladyship's eyes
to his satyric commanding.
mighty cervine males in fall,
or men the whole year round
answer an inner mating call
to conquest wherever found.
to one there comes a season
for the other it's all the time
neither reflects on its reason
but one needs ego to climb.
the day, unannounced, over
the season and reason, new
virility trumpeting in clover,
the once-best bows his adieu.
a stag in stochastic epiphany
will trust his nose in the brights,
but soundless, sudden cacophony,
becomes prologue to paradise nights.
not a man. he argues with fate,
not mid-life crisis, but rebirth;
jewelry, tan, a new hairy pate
propping up a fleeting self-worth.
man or deer, as champion here,
who the more useful paradigm?
stags in the light, insists the seer,
recall, post meridiem, your prime.
--Don Juan de Feu
copyright 1998, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved