I wish I could transcribe
poems, epic of dirty French kisses,
orgasmic ‘neath rainbows
spread ‘cross the coasts of Ireland.
But I listen to music, American.
You Can’t Bring Me Down.
I’m a heathen with a heart, and
not what you deserve. My love,
you deserve something lovely—
something uttered When in Rome.
Or perhaps something celestial.
How ‘bout Just like Heaven?
You’ve always had The Cure.
Too bad I can’t accept it.