by Dan Campion

A Casanova Hef was not,
Nor Byron’s pet, Don Juan,
Nor Earl of Rochester (that sot).
Of rakes, Hef was a new one
Who riffled sheaves of eight-by-tens
And turned them into gold
That warmed the Cold War’s drafty dens
With sizzling centerfold.
While news blared cover-up, high crime,
And international feud,
Hef was the Courbet of his times,
The champion of the nude.
Let Venus be his elegy;
His relics, robe and pipe.
His influence? Dons won’t agree,
Except it’s blushing ripe.