Saturday, February 14, 2009

An Ounce Of Treacle Is Worth A Pound Of Canto


On this bloody eve, my Sweet, I pray
That you'll be mine forever and a day.
I love your hair of blue and eyes of peach
But your moist pudendum is out of reach.

I've written you verse till I'm blue in the face.
Even bought you chocolate by the case.
You smile. With disdain? I feel a right sap.
This wordy wimpishness is just a trap.

I'll start pinochle and stamp collecting.
I'll never get pussy-inspecting.
Years of rhymes yellow in onion parchment
While I keep using my penis enlargement.

But what good's it for if you won't be mine?
My seed is spilling down the sere vine.
I try to impress by words sweet and true:
You ignore me, have sex with the longshore crew.

"Your beauty in innocence", blah blah blah ....
Can't you see my engorged heart? "Hah hah hah!"
You mock me, angel, but I won't relent.
My body's broken, and my mind is bent.

This love, though, Dear, is forever (I pant).
Now “ooh!” And “aah!” over my poems, scant
With sense, and diseased with confused spite.
Be my backstabbing Valentine tonight.


(An "Ethereal B" leftover)

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