The Fallow Brow

I like to think that when a man reaches a certain age, he gives up on the desires of the flesh completely. His genitalia waves a little white flag and lies down for the big sleep. Unfortunately there are those who don’t know when quit, like this dirty old man. Must be all that clean mountain air filling him with vigour. Perhaps we should ship him to the big city where the putrid air will sap his strength like the millions of other cattle sitting around in their cubicles waiting to die.