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Ode on the Occasion of Lord Steven's Thirtieth Anniversaire

by Danny "Don Juan" Henrey

Lo! From the mid-west sunsets, pink and tender,
Whose corny pastures fetid thoughts engender
Of weirdness transcending his prairie home,
Arose the modern Prometheus!
His parents left the lad scarce home alone,
For ’twas the alarming codling’s thesis
To loose, free-rein, the strange urges within
On playmates young and innocent; his mind
Would ’pon his ‘friends’ phantasies unwind,
So that he grew precocious quite in sin!
Yet theoretical his knowledge stayed,
Until that day amid the fulsome corn,
Breasty Brenda pounced ’pon his waving horn:
Quoth he, "Egad! I’m well and truly laid!"
Through Harvard’s crimson joys in time he passed,
(Learned but to tell his elbow from his arse),
A Buggerall Scholar, noble and proud,
Distinct, as ever, from the common crowd;
In drinking and swyving did he so shine,
To Oxon’s practised halls of ancient mire
He came: Quoth they, "Th’art truly wicked, sire! —
A Shameless Shamen Scholarship be thine!"
With pitcher of Tanqueray and tonic
In purple-pawed glove he strolled about,
His catamites around in lech’rous rout,
(And the (very) odd don, hobbling with gout),
A portrait sublime of decadence Byronic.
Lords Dan and Chris his talents did perceive
In fetters of silk do his poems weave
Imagination captive; quoth they,
"Steve, The master quite of luscious, wanton sleaze,
And lines o’erflowing with bounteous fruits
Of sweetest poison, and tenderest shoots
Of black debauch, the Byronists must HAVE!"
Thus mid-career of sin, we salute the lad,
Who in his fourth decade perfumes the airs
With that which only he the Beast outstares!
Others aver that he will yet grow mad,
Yet those who better ken our hero rare
Know he hath far outpaced the state of loon,
And plays upon his flute an unearthlier tune.