The pitfalls of a roguish path
Include the clucks of peckish hens,
Who pool their temperamental wrath
To fuel their instigated pens.

I medicate my rigid force
With penicillin as my shield,
The sentinel for intercourse,
A scabbard for the sword I wield.

Their enmity is thinly veiled
In diatribes that skirt the fringe,
But clever scoundrels, once assailed,
Use self-defense: a full syringe.

I dodge their barbs with deft success,
A whirling dervish armed with verse
To laud the single life I bless,
And scorn the coupled death I curse.

Though caustic sirens shred the ears
With shrill complaints of wayward scamps,
A true rapscallion never hears
The squalling of discarded tramps.

Their oft-increased intensity
Does nothing to impair my cause;
My still-unbound propensity
Rejects the norm of social laws.

With every maiden left in bed,
I ravage my quixotic past
To suffocate the words I said
When love was real, and thought to last.

If you believe a rogue can change,
Unlatch the gate your fear defends,
Then feel me slither into range
To sully you, and all your friends.