Slow Poke
by sloanranger
I smiled at him, "A poem for me?"
He said: 'No, not especial-lee.'
I was almost frantic -
"But it's so romantic..."
he said: 'I'm a diplomat, you see.'
I had always come when he beckoned,
I was very hurt for a second.
"In prose or in rhyme,
I'll tell you - next time
it'll take much more than you reckoned."
You see, I'd thought he was mine,
how could he be so unkind?
"Take your poem," I spoke,
"fold it and poke -
it up where the moon doesn't shine."
