The Rowdy Boys

Party on and on and on
Until the clocks run down
And the sand spills over
The twelve hands of time.
They make no plans for futures,
Ripe with nothing but renown —
Ageless sages who know
Never to stop at any town
That closes before dawn.
One by one they drink
The tumescent nights away
And tell stories to quench
The thirst they attempt to slake
Throughout their restless lives.
And what of the girls —
Stuck in their leather boots —
Gazing longingly at rakish faces
In a circle around them.
Will they soon recover
From such secret lovers
And that first taste of spring …
The name of each rowdy boy
Forever engraved like a stamp
On their sweet young tongues.