10-20-2016, 01:58 PM
On A Certain Female’s Certain Ignorance Of Love.
To love a girl? A waste of time
Spent better company’d by wine,
Though purple grapes won’t swallow spunk
Unlike her love they leave you drunk.
For wine won’t leave you wanting more,
To ‘couple’ with a doting bore,
Who’ll see her more and fuck her less,
Arrange her life and end her mess.
As through him order she attains,
How long can she suppress the strains?
Her want for passion, red raw highs,
The long for lust between her thighs.
But passion he has! Through cards and flowers,
Tradition, meals and relaxed hours.
Yet flowers are a thoughtless gift-
Memorable? No. Their death is swift.
Excitement? Rarely rolls the rumble
A birthday fuck, a drunken fumble,
And Valentine’s! That day of course,
They smile when they should show remorse.
For that Hallmark day of celebration,
Lingerie and obligation,
Serves its purpose yet portrays
Their staleness on all other days.
But this fine day, romance is clear;
Who cares for their remaining year!
Not she, whilst she is not alone;
Her father, bone and chaperone.
That thing they speak, ‘relationship’-
Without love? Dual custodianship.
She likes his looks and they get on,
But void of heart is it not wrong
To waste rare hours in dire embrace
Of other ‘cause you "liked his face”?
What more a woman could desire?
An easy life, no chance to hire.
The stranger’s glint she can ignore,
Her friends that don’t, she’ll label whores.
Though surely sluts will have more fun,
A greater list of men they’ve done,
They’ll settle down and never sigh
Of a wasted youth with a boring guy.
And who is she? She fucks a man
She does not love and never can.
She knows this yet she fucks him still,
She soils herself with his bleak will.
And in exchange? His dull devotion,
Companionship, his weak emotion.
Every fuck, putrescent pollution
Furthering her from absolution,
From I, this is no persecution-
Relationship, no. Prostitution!
Three years spent, they’ll drift apart,
A tragic waste of her promising heart;
A heart that sadly she assigned
To beat ‘neath her inhibiting mind.
Romantics true, a dying breed,
Contentment grasped through reason, greed.
And saying such I sound so scornful,
I loved her once. Thus I am mournful.
As to be hers I’d have to change,
My heathen ways I would exchange.
Yet then so boring would I be,
That she now loves, she would not see.
Still therefore she'd not want me,
And I’d not want me neither.
RBJ
To love a girl? A waste of time
Spent better company’d by wine,
Though purple grapes won’t swallow spunk
Unlike her love they leave you drunk.
For wine won’t leave you wanting more,
To ‘couple’ with a doting bore,
Who’ll see her more and fuck her less,
Arrange her life and end her mess.
As through him order she attains,
How long can she suppress the strains?
Her want for passion, red raw highs,
The long for lust between her thighs.
But passion he has! Through cards and flowers,
Tradition, meals and relaxed hours.
Yet flowers are a thoughtless gift-
Memorable? No. Their death is swift.
Excitement? Rarely rolls the rumble
A birthday fuck, a drunken fumble,
And Valentine’s! That day of course,
They smile when they should show remorse.
For that Hallmark day of celebration,
Lingerie and obligation,
Serves its purpose yet portrays
Their staleness on all other days.
But this fine day, romance is clear;
Who cares for their remaining year!
Not she, whilst she is not alone;
Her father, bone and chaperone.
That thing they speak, ‘relationship’-
Without love? Dual custodianship.
She likes his looks and they get on,
But void of heart is it not wrong
To waste rare hours in dire embrace
Of other ‘cause you "liked his face”?
What more a woman could desire?
An easy life, no chance to hire.
The stranger’s glint she can ignore,
Her friends that don’t, she’ll label whores.
Though surely sluts will have more fun,
A greater list of men they’ve done,
They’ll settle down and never sigh
Of a wasted youth with a boring guy.
And who is she? She fucks a man
She does not love and never can.
She knows this yet she fucks him still,
She soils herself with his bleak will.
And in exchange? His dull devotion,
Companionship, his weak emotion.
Every fuck, putrescent pollution
Furthering her from absolution,
From I, this is no persecution-
Relationship, no. Prostitution!
Three years spent, they’ll drift apart,
A tragic waste of her promising heart;
A heart that sadly she assigned
To beat ‘neath her inhibiting mind.
Romantics true, a dying breed,
Contentment grasped through reason, greed.
And saying such I sound so scornful,
I loved her once. Thus I am mournful.
As to be hers I’d have to change,
My heathen ways I would exchange.
Yet then so boring would I be,
That she now loves, she would not see.
Still therefore she'd not want me,
And I’d not want me neither.
RBJ