I wince. I fear.
I leave you with a tear.
My words stillborn,
And wisdom all forlorn,
I summon up another beer.
A toast. A laugh:
To your memory I quaff!
So fatuous and rude,
A peasant and a prude.
My face still burns on your behalf!
The slap! The sting!
Oh what a mean, ungracious thing,
To lash out in distress,
When I admire a breast,
So seemly in its blossoming.
Well, fine! Okay!
What were you to me anyway?
A busty mannequin
Best had with a shot of gin.
May all your hairs turn grey!
Begone then! Despise!
The hate that's in your eyes
Is sweeter a confection
Than all of your affection,
And a far more honest guise!
George Chadderdon © 1995