to his rash mistress

if we were running out of time
this rashness, baby, were no crime
your headstone's second date's not nigh
ours would be old news when you die
having forgot our first impressed
you little sober, less re-dressed
(or were you just too satisfied
to want again what you once tried?)
'twas not your deathbed where we slept
you won't recall much there except 
a rush from one fool to the next
not whether you returned some text
or ever gave another kiss 
to somebody who sent you this