He opened his eyes that morning; with surprise.
From the muffled warmth, he was loathe to rise.
His joints a symphony of snap, crackle, pop
He arose and then back to bed did flop.
The aged hero of many a dream
No longer held in prurient esteem
The wrinkles, bags, and tucks have told –
The beloved one has grown too old.
No windblown hair caressed his pate
It seems he’d grown quite bald of late.
The biceps and triceps have turned to flab
The color of his skin not tan but drab.
He missed it now, the photographer’s flash
The heroine clinging, and the piles of cash.
No more paperbacks to come his way
He hung it up and called it a day.
Fabio is gone the paper’s said
All my favorites buried and dead.