The wrinkle is canny, the wrinkle is wild;
it can’t be outrun and it won’t be beguiled.
It lives in the canyons and creases of time
and it can’t be defeated by reason or rhyme.
The wrinkle is cruel and the wrinkle is wild
but its prey’s not the helpless and vulnerable child;
it goes for the one in the flower of her prime,
and she cannot attack it with reason or rhyme.
The wrinkle is rugged and craggy and wild –
though it dawns with a crinkle that’s charmingly mild,
it’s a map of fjords when the midnight bells chime,
and you can’t fill them in – not with reason nor rhyme.
The wrinkle is brutal and beastly and wild;
it’ll nest like a pest where your beauty once smiled...
it’s a Goth and a Vandal, addicted to crime;
it’s stealing my reason, and that’s why I rhyme.