(About a 1 minute read)
While attending the Whitemore College
Of Fine Arts,
I wrote her love poems that were suggestive
By matching the length of my penis
And that she could not help but feel sincere.
Poems I modestly called, “Masterpieces of Word”.
An understatement, of course, forced on me
By the inadequacies of the English language,
Which had not a term in it extreme enough
To approach capturing my extraordinary talents.
Naturally, the same problem returned like an echo
When I tried to describe my skills in bed,
And how lucky she should feel I loved her
She had unfortunately been raised up disgracefully
By a traveling band of professional
Mustache waxers who exploited her youthful naivete
To prostitute her to organ-grinder’s monkeys
As the sole means of keeping the animal’s morale
High in the face of listening
The dreadful music of their masters.
The band in part redeemed its outrage, however,
By setting aside a portion of her earnings
For her to attend Whitmore, where I found her
Tragically confused and in love
With the campus squirrels. She’d sew little red vests
For them, you see, and sing well into the night
Their favorite grinder songs.
I rescued her from that by marrying her,
And then composing a poem so that she could grasp
Her sheer good fortune that I cared.