My beloved girl friend, I only have
poetry...
I don't even know if it's a fool's delight
or scholars....
I don't know whether to enrapture or enervate
if it has merit or if it is
credit worthy...
Other than that nothing else...
only my misdeeds
manners, mannerisms...
I know if it causes you any
It is made....
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi...!?
I don't know if I can, but if you want,
I give my time, I can do
right just to please you...
I do everything for you... it's just
ask... all I can give,
even having nothing else
to offer...!
Categories:
coucher, allusion, analogy, girlfriend, love,
Form: Prose Poetry
Wish I was a poet, and got well paid
for poems writ whilst wearing suede
and drinking lots ‘n' lots of claret,
in a well-appointed Paris garret
My publisher would love me true,
and pay my rent, when overdue,
so I wouldn't sleep on Montmartre streets
and get under decent people's feets
I'd get well drunk and laid a lot,
(I heard poets do, more oft than not)
and choose, with numbers from a jar,
mam'selles to coucher with each soir.
Les dames Francaises would think me clever
‘cause root and boot are words I'd never
correlate. But sometimes Paris Bourse,
I'd rhyme with sexual intercourse.
And what if, for every verse I penned,
I got a hot brand-new best friend?
I wonder how long could I last,
in a life I led that blazing fast?
My real life's, in truth, synonymous
with being next best to anonymous,
but I suppose that it might be much worse,
had I to catch an early hearse.
Categories:
coucher, humorous, paris,
Form: Couplet