As a lad I would oft times sit
with pen and heart a quiver.
Visions of love and a pounding breast
would cause my soul to shiver.
And none would do but words sublime
to describe my stricken heart
while Cupid's arrow plunged it through
and my world was cleft apart.
Some years passed and I learnt fast
to shed romantic notions.
Love was more than a throbbing heart-
it involved some mechanical motions.
Yet still confined to business suited
words and neat appearance,
my verse could scarcely ever cause
a need for the censor's clearance.
The pages still squeaky clean
although the rhyme more daring.
At times I used just assonance
when my deepest feelings sharing.
But how I long for my verse to be more baring-
like lingerie, tights, headboard hair, dim lights.
To use words other people do.
To have the guts to call love a screw.
To let imagery run amuck
and call making love a bore.