Oh, Poor Anna Creontic
Oh, poor Anna Creontic
Reduced to a poetic antic
Who in her prime,
Exuding rhythm and rhyme
Broke the hearts of so many
Including mine.
Therefore, I shall not disclose
The “cut of her jib” or point of her nose
And lest I be severely beaten
Unveil a heart sugar can’t sweeten
Say what you will of old Anna Creontic
As history will always inflate
The touch of her hand, the wisp of her hair
And the list of her suitors irate
Among those living and dead
It has never been said
That she didn’t excel
On dance floor or bed
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