Читать книгу #Sonnets - Lucien Young - Страница 23

Sweet surgeon, fetch thy scalpel and syringe,

For with abundant faults I am bestowed:

Smooth out those lines that on my brow impinge,

Relieve these eye-bags of their heavy load.

Then lend some strength to this unmanly jaw,

Erase the scars of acne’s cruel eruption,

Each tufted mole remove, lost youth restore,

And purge my back fat with thy liposuction!

Yet no — I pray, withhold thy anaesthetic.

My mind is changed: imperfect shall I stay,

For though my form is pasty and pathetic,

My love proclaims she loves me anyway.

Thus is self-hate cast off by means fantastic

And, having love, I have no need of plastic.