Slow Poke

by sloanranger

I smiled at him, "A poem for me?"

He said: 'No, not especial-lee.'

I was almost frantic -

"But it's so romantic..."

he said: 'I'm a diplomat, you see.'

I had always come when he beckoned,

I was very hurt for a second.

"In prose or in rhyme,

I'll tell you - next time

it'll take much more than you reckoned."

You see, I'd thought he was mine,

how could he be so unkind?

"Take your poem," I spoke,

"fold it and poke -

it up where the moon doesn't shine."