Love doesn’t have to be real.
This saves money and time—
No diseases, no betrayal, when you plead your love in rhyme.
No contract, no promise, no deal;
No sweaty palms; no doubting, hopeful heart,
Just throw your life into rhyme and art.
There are ways nature wants it done—
And society has ways to make it fun.
In the end, nature has her way:
Clay melts if it doesn’t make more clay.
Life conspires to kill romance.
The boorish are invited to the dance.
The beautiful are brainless; you want someone new.
A poem will never be sent to you.
Why should love be real?
Must you have her to feel
Love? Those disgusting to you
Love her. And she might love them, too.
You don’t need her breast
Pressing against your breast.
You’re a genius. Your breast
Has poems. For her, and all the rest.