The poet, wanting to be, liked,
wrote poems for her which were spiked,
with thoughts he hoped would make him seem,
like someone who she might esteem.
He spoke of love, how it was crap.
Of kisses wet and dewy laps.
Of body lines traced one by one.
Of god****ed bees unfairly done,
her eyes, her smile, her lack of care,
her breath, her kiss beneath her hair
her sinful menu (no, no chips),
her mingling place (his ears for grips).
And, just to demonstrate his class,
he pointed out his sagging arse.
Of such is what romance is made!
He knew he could not but get laid!
She'd surely not his charms resist.
And if she did ... he'd get her pissed!!