07-29-2020, 02:41 PM
Summer romances: a cautionary tale
There was a man who explained his poems.
Even the ones addressed to Ernst Rohm’s
Brownshirts (“Trust in your SS brothers,
comrades. They’re from another....mutter!!”
and there they ended, with blood spatters on the page).
And so he explained his poems, this sage,
to soccer moms in tight knit blouses,
under the trees, where sang titmouses
of dirty loue, then proceeded to show ‘em
slices of his life -
an unfortunately headless wife,
the ghosts of girlfriends felled by the hand of fate -
“What a splendid hideaway! What’s this gun for, Nate?”
and other anecdotes of deceased ex-spouses.
And presently a donna, throwing caution to the winds,
would say “Which of us has never yet sinned?
I love your mind, I’m sapiosexual Kate.
Let’s go on a date.”
And that would be the last they’d see of her, Kathrin,
despite the chomping and the chafing and the chattrin
of her friends.
That’s how it ends.
There was a man who explained his poems.
Even the ones addressed to Ernst Rohm’s
Brownshirts (“Trust in your SS brothers,
comrades. They’re from another....mutter!!”
and there they ended, with blood spatters on the page).
And so he explained his poems, this sage,
to soccer moms in tight knit blouses,
under the trees, where sang titmouses
of dirty loue, then proceeded to show ‘em
slices of his life -
an unfortunately headless wife,
the ghosts of girlfriends felled by the hand of fate -
“What a splendid hideaway! What’s this gun for, Nate?”
and other anecdotes of deceased ex-spouses.
And presently a donna, throwing caution to the winds,
would say “Which of us has never yet sinned?
I love your mind, I’m sapiosexual Kate.
Let’s go on a date.”
And that would be the last they’d see of her, Kathrin,
despite the chomping and the chafing and the chattrin
of her friends.
That’s how it ends.
