That She Loved 10 And 1 Before Him,
Or That Her Lips Belonged To 10 And 1 Before Him,
Did Not Take A Morsel Of Sadness From Him;
Like Oliver Demanding More,
Like Oliver Never Receiving More,
He Still Dreamed And Prostrated And Loved,
And Never Received Back,
Except For The Morsels Of Course;
‘Thank You Darling’ In Afterthought Mail Or,
‘Hello Honey On Chance Evening Meeting.
These Like A Pair Of New Shoes In My Childhood,
Were Enough To Send Him Into A Flurry Of Activity,
And Straight To The Chopping Board,
To Cook Her A Meal(Or Perhaps Bake A Cake):
Of Rhythm And Rhyme,
Of Lyric And Limmerick.
For Her He Lay Down A Carpet Of Words,
Flowers Of Verse;
Scented With Prose,
And The Declaration Of Undying Love,
Even If She Had Been With 10 And 1 Before Him.
On This Carpet She Now Walks(0r Perhaps Flies) ,
Into The Arms Of 10 And 2 Lovers,
And Not A Piece Left For Him,
Except For The Morsels Of Course