Get Your Premium Membership


I sing a song to my lost love Who’s left this Earth and gone above. (Or maybe she’s below instead; Who the hell cares, cuz she’s dead.) 'Tis true she wrote bad poetry, Wrote verse of opaque complexity, But I cared not, for her love was true, Her transgressions, just a few: Just Mike and Jim and Bryce And Tom and Dick and Harry (twice); She did Omar and Hakeem, (And then she did that football team). But I forgave her every time; I forgave her every crime; I forgave her lousy rhymes; I forgave her misspelt lines; I forgave her plagiarism; Even forgave her symbolism. But her limericks were just so bad, So out of form, they drove me mad! For no matter the many times I roared, “Only TWO stresses in lines three and four!” She’d still write lines with many more; Still wrote those lines with many more! So of course she had to go Though the thought did pain me so. But I still dream of her at night And in the fading evening light, And yearn once more to hold and squeeze her Where she’s stored below in my big freezer.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.