I once hoped to find the woman of my reams:
The woman who appeared in my taughts.
The philosophy of poetry,
That poetry of thought:
That tree of undeniable bought.
But now I’m SO glad this woman ain’t true;
Neither me nor you
Should ever have believed
In the wielding of such tool,
In the wooing of such fool.
SO glad, then, is this man
Who rights these lives before you:
This man who is me is SO glad he’s lost all hope.
The inscribed and the rote:
The repeat of all opinion.
No longer do I believe
In a monogamy tyrannical.