The Romantics

[Leanne]

In spite of all the pretty words that make your knees go weak,
And similes about your eyes and oceans, stars or jewels,
Remember, as that ruby blush brings blossoms to your cheek,
The poet doesn’t mean those things, my love, they’re only tools.
The poet is a sneaky sort who serenades the page,
To shape its pale virginity into his lover’s form,
And once begun, his pen is not about to disengage
From frenzied strokes of passion in his literary storm.
This flaccid nerd by words becomes your troubadourish knight,
His girth recedes, his hair grows thick, he’s dash and derring-do,
And you, his gentle sonnet queen, have spurred his soul to write
Of what he’d do if only he weren’t terrified of you.
In fairyland built high upon the strata of cliché
The poet spins his lyric lies to you, his chosen lay.

[Todd]

frenzied strokes
flaccid nerd
girth recedes

There's a lot of subliminal poem in the poem going on. But the conclusion yeah that's true. It's simply poetry following the evolutionary impertive.

[billy]

So we've met before fair lady of the night.
Were you wearing any cloths, or was it just the light,
that shone from yonder window's fallen jewel?
i aspect you think me full of browning's stool
and know that Shakespeare came from much later climes.
Paradise flowed from milton's nib to chime
onslaught of the less romanticeptic bear.
The later twats, like Byron, Shelly, and John Clare
then began the art of writing coy and trite.
Beauty, heart, and loves they held were such a sight
With starry this, widest that, and deepest tho's,
they assuaged our senses with candescent blows.
Now, many poets use the same exact words
and follow blind, like some large poetic herd.

the pentameter's shot to shit :Blush:

[Leanne]

I can't believe you answered me in couplets
It's just so... well, unsonnetary, sir
Yet still, I say by candlelight, oh, sup let's
You wear your bow-tie, I'll wear plastic fur
And speak of poets dead or simply stupid
Who thought their words would win them bits of muff
So wrote to women, thinking they were dup'ed
But winsome words are never quite enough
It takes some savoir-faire, or else just money
To get the boobies out and knickers down
It does no good to dip your nib in honey
And wear a beret like some poncey clown
Alternatively, buy me lots of wine
And I am anybody's valentine.

[Leanne]

Cheers, Todd. It really does work you know

[Aish]

Watching you guys make me smile.

Once upon a time in hormone land I spent about 6 months corresponding with 'the living end' solely raping the meter of Poe's THE RAVEN. I think it burnt me out

[Leanne]

Raven raping sure can weary
When the flesh is worn and weak
Do it after midnight, deary --
Just be careful of the beak

[Aish]

LMAO!!!!!!!!!

[Wildcard]

Leanne, I love that -

even though the rhymes are weak, the third lines a bit weary and the whole damn thing is too dreary . . . and beak

Seriously, though I love it!

[Aish]

"He ate a live duck once, everything but the beak and the feet."

[Leanne]

"beak and feet" sounds like a curse

AA... your puns are worse than mine, I'm so impressed...

[Wildcard]

You are very kind, Leanne.

I once submitted ten sentences to a contest of catchy wordplay in hopes that one might score, but no pun in ten did.

[Leanne]

I wish there was a groan icon.

Imagine there is.

[Aish]

Yes, a groan icon and a puking icon. And one who nods its head *nods head*.

[Wildcard]

So you've heard the old pun before? [scratching chin] Some wise asses! I mean wise lasses . . .

[Aish]

sip barley from glasses...