I used to say I didn’t curse
Unless it was a must –
I saved my swears for fiery verse
And elsewise hardly cussed.
There was the time I hit my head
And let an F fly free,
And once I faced a foe and said,
You little S-O-B.
But rarely did I feel the need
For words so anger-thick;
To such alternatives I’d cede
As phooey, shoot, and frick.
My mouth was thus quite often clean
(And not from any soap);
I traded in, for the obscene,
Naïveté and hope.
Yet now I find I’m older, and
My lexicon has changed
The principle of self-command
Is slightly rearranged.
I still believe in taking care
With anything profane
But now, alas, I’m well aware
Of all you can’t explain
With euphemistic turns of phrase
That try to hide and smooth
The agonies that need to blaze
And pain you cannot soothe.
So though I miss that simpler past
When life was full of pluck,
I think I’ve learned the truth at last:
Sometimes, you just say fuck.