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A not in love poem
Could I prefer thee to a bummer day?
You have less love and belong in a crate.
You drink my darling Bud, to my dismay
Your house’s lease hath all too long a date.
Often time I, so hot, from heaven shine,
And my gold complexion is never dim;
My every hair, so fair, never declines,
By scissors, or the barber’s ugly trim.
But thy infernal winter cannot fade
Nor lose possession, for no fair thou ow'st;
I wish death brags thou wand'rest in his shade,
So to be honest, well, you know you’re gross.
So long as men can gag and eyes can’t see,
So long lives this, fingers-crossed it kills thee
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