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A SONG TO MY LOST LOVE

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




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