Fountain of Youth

O’ Muse, sweet Muse fill my soul,
with blackness, tar, and motor oil.
Inject thy face with the fat of the land,
withering willows wake the decay of time's rotten hand.
Narcissus, di Milo, automatons falling victim to youth’s joke,
the art of escaping age’s heavy-handed brushstroke.
Corpses sucked and tucked, fish-lipped looks of surprise,
Ghastly scarce the grace of looking old when one dies.