Two whole months to savor
independence from restraint:
time to serve my own best favor,
needs and longings, bold and quaint.
Nine more weeks to revel
in the recklessness of youth,
to be carelessly disheveled,
disrespectful and uncouth.
Sixty days to party,
to enjoy the lewdest jokes,
with a beverage thick and hearty
and a pocket full of smokes.
Is it so abnormal
that I'd rather not be free,
that no parties, loose or formal,
could endear themselves to me?
Should I be embracing
these, my last few weeks alone,
not the future that's replacing
such a life as I have known?
All my joys are idle--
every drink, a bitter taste.
With my hands upon the bridle,
every spur has gone to waste.
Now I seek completion
in a loving ball and chain.
While I've ever met depletion
in her grasp can life be gained.
Sixty days of waiting
for the life I've ever sought--
that which most men are evading,
but that I would trade for naught.
Nine more weeks remaining,
and my world will be complete.
Through the years, though hope was waning
I had never claimed defeat.
Two long months and counting
to the life I will achieve
that I never saw amounting
but am thankful to receive.
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