Do not write that letter,
scatter your lovely thoughts
elsewhere– do not engrave them
upon cream laid paper
to be skimmed by that wastrel poseur,
arrogant beast, sonnet-annihilator–
you may think it’s your best work,
a labour of love,
but he will tear it to bits
as he escorts you
around the vegetable patch,
making you listen to the
most jaded lecture imaginable,
while your skirts trail in the mud,
compounding your misery.
For him, love is just a game of chess
played in a house of ill-repute.
I want to save you from that,
so I’m hiding the ink pot,
and handing you a pistol instead.