WILD MAN

The moment they said that we couldn’t go out

I thought of the strictures that I could now flout;

the sartorial rules that no longer held true

and the gross misdemeanors that I could now do.

The second they claimed that we had to stay home

I abandoned my brush and discarded my comb.

The hair on my head’s now akin to a mop,

my attempts at decorum are simply a flop. 

I now wear my t-shirts for three days at least

and I no longer care if my trousers are creased.

My baths are infrequent, my pants are well-worn.

My garments are crusty from looking at porn. 

I started off fresh and I started off groomed,

but as things unravelled my face got subsumed

by a jungle-like growth from my ears to my throat. 

I started to look like an ape or a stoat. 

And as these vibrissae continue their yomp

my profile, once proud, is now losing its pomp. 

The wiry tendrils are staking their claim;

the wife who once loved me recoils in shame.

I walk with a shamble, conversing in grunts.

I burp and I snort and I fart all at once.

My semblance of rectitude has been destroyed:

I now am that bloke that you’d want to avoid.

But do I regret it? I couldn’t care less.

I’ve seized on this moment to fully regress.

From the instant they said that we can’t mill about,

the wild man within me just had to come out.