Do You Really Think We're Made for Each Other?
My love for you is like a crashing plane:
exhilarating pace, without control:
you’re equatorial around the pole.
Why meet my sunshine with torrential rain?
My heart is Dealey Plaza, you’re on Main.
I often think destruction is your goal -
you seem to me a well-intentioned troll.
Profundities, once uttered, are inane:
your utterances, colourfully drab,
are tart as custard, sweet as succotash:
your slow-burn humour, like a smash-and-grab,
resembles credit cards. I’ll stick to cash.
No self-respecting homeless hermit-crab
would ever trade with you. You’re feebly rash.
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