"Why pluck the bristles from your worn out cleft, Hoary and grizzled by time's onward march? For wanton tricks you've no excuses left, Age should be all propriety and starch. Let blooming girls their tender pussies trim, Those pouting buds expect some pleasure after; My wife might charm me if she dressed her quim, But my grandmother would provoke my laughter. That is no cunt at which no prick can stand, The whitened embers of young lust's spent force; Then cast the tweezers from your palsied hand. Nor beard the once fierce lion's rotting corse."