Such an odd obscurity this so-called love

Some are fortunate while others are not

I have tasted its bitter fruit

And suffered the ill-begotten poison.

Under love I've witnessed underwhelming experiences

Or these experiences have never occurred at all

Heartbreaks, betrayals, and manipulations I've suffered

Expecting something out of a Romantic Era poem.

I wouldn't call myself a romantic. 

Hell, not even the hopeless kind!

Luck and proximity have failed me constantly on that end

I can't relate to speakers in romantic poetry, let alone in prose

And even the knights in King Arthur's court

I just adore tales of chivalric deeds.

I read a lot of gothic literature and classic poetry,

From the Medieval all the way to the Victorian Era

I wonder to myself if I am the knight in Keats' poem,

Who fell prey to the seduction of the beautiful, Merciless Lady.

Am I but a mere pawn in a Brother's Grimm fairytale?

Did the Evil Queen fuck with my luck?

Magick mirror 'pon the wall, 

Who is the most unfortunate prick of them all?

Would it say that it is me?

I bet human lives that it wouldn't.

It may have to do with my bad choices in women

The cute, innocent-looking ones are pretty much my type. I'm a sucker for it.

Beneath that riveting façade is a lecherous fiend riddled with the Lady's malice

Thank my dogshit luck and proximity for that.

I'm always encountering that same old fairy

That beautiful lady void of mercy

She is the embodiment of all toxic traits I've witnessed in relationships

Her calamity of an influence know no bounds, I say onto thee.

I've met succubi with more candor and integrity

Thank this ran-through wet market of a cunt-rag

She's trying to coerce me to revoke my title as Gentleman Knight,

And become the very thing I can't stand:

A man-whore like Zeus, or a fuckboy in simple terms.

I understand if I become like her

My luck in a sex life would be vastly greater

Unfortunately for her, that won't come to pass

Having a high body count isn't my thing

It isn't for everybody.

The bitch knows me too well,

My taste in literature, my passions, the languages I want to learn

She knows what kind of girls I'm into

She knows me like a book read numerous times.

Oh, Lovely Lady without Mercy

A former slave I once was to thy temptation

A devoted thrall under your Telepsychosis

Raining upon me pleasure and orgasm everlasting.

Wait. Wait. Screw that

If I catch that fairy around me

I'll bring a gun,

And shoot her right between the fucking eyes.

No. Not even that would work

She was forged from the pen held by Keats' hand

Not even a female Lancelot would be considered a good comparison

This merciless bitch of a fairy would instantly outmatch her.

If Keats were alive today

I would approach him and ask:

"Kind sir, what wretchedness of lust,

Have you spawned upon this era of gullibility and dumbassery?