Elegy to Beauty

Age shall not weary them (old bones)
for at the going down of the (very old) sun
their plastic surgeons will remember them
(their increased bank balances a heavy burden)

petroleum-based beauty bestowed
like draughts from youth’s fountain

faces will lift, in adolescent appreciation
noses will shrink in sympathy, upturned
into cutness, as purchased attractiveness reigns
in their age, the poor remain
gray, wrinkled, blemish ridden
their humanity hidden by chronology

masculinity gained through plastic padding
potent pecs pushing forth plaid shirts
while smooth calves wind their way
down memory lane, striding vainly,
chasing after sculptured bums and
newly improved bustlines, hands brushing
through replanted follicles proudly
proclaiming the surgeons victory

mortality is vanquished, death extinguished
delivered to the dustbin of history
a winning run coming to an end,
its crotchety attacks on longevity defeated
by the chemically-peeled, unmarked hands
of a forty-five-going-on-twenty year old