Afterburns
My love is like a red, red rose… in that
it withers, dies; it does not last the season.
My loved one is a painted goddess (fat),
a statue (cold), a jewel (devoid of reason).
My love is like a melody—by which
I mean it’s all played out. It’s like a prayer:
too often selfish. She’s a doll (she’s kitsch).
She’s life itself! (That is, she isn’t fair.)
An Ethnographical Dispute
I never rode across the steppe
bareback, on a shoeless steed,
I’m no barbarian, barely contrarian,
more prone to sloth than wrath or greed!
I neither live nor (I hope) die by the sword.
I never sacked a Roman villa.
I never laid an empire low.
I’ve sworn no fealty to Attila.
The number of conquered village chiefs I’ve decapitated?
None!
So why does this Southern waitress keep asking me,
“Want some more coffee, Hun?”