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 © Jerome Malenfant | Year Posted 2017
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