She was a famous writer, 
And a poet of a certain age,
While he was only a playboy
With hair that was all the rage.

Inhaling the perfume of twilight, 
The rake to the poetess goes.
Like the solemnest mass, on the sofa,
She sits, and declaims through her nose:

"Let your fi'ry caresses embrace me
And awaken my passions from sleep.
Do not hold back your lips, but come kiss me.
Loose my thighs from their garter so deep!

I am fresh as a breath of white lilies.
Let us criscross our bodies in bed!"
In this manner her verses continue
'Til the playboy is blushing bright red.

Yes, he blushes, but quickly recovers,
And reflects: "Now or never, it seems.
It's not time for officialese discourse
But for action – fulfillment of dreams!"

With unrestrain'd pow'r like a centaur's
To the poet the playboy's unspool'd,
But a shrill cry for help screeches: "Mavra! Mavra! Mavra! Mavra!"
And the rake's boiling ardor is cool'd.

"I'm sorry!"  He jumps up.  "But I thought..."
In her eyes there is nothing but cold.
"Sir, I'm a respectable lady.
You boor!  How could you be so bold!?"

And now here comes Mavra.  The guest is
So scared, he won't be back again.
Confused, he retreats to the lobby, 
A long while he looks for his cane.

His face now white as magnesium, 
Descending the stairs in a rage, 
He just doesn't understand poetry, 
Or at least not of a certain age.
He does not, he cannot, understand....