To A Lady
It's nice, beyond a certain stage
(merely a euphemism for age)
To leave behind the vexing task
of falling, three times a day, in love-
Often by the broadest light thereof.
And peptide driven, bear Love's cross-
Charming, awfully, the way
Secretions frack our mortal clay
Such as a shower cannot remedy-
Those ardors paid with future inanition.
Exempted more in practice than in theory,
Now. Then, I never minded, really,
My 'court the present, shirk
The future policy' retired, I recall one fact:
Love's alot of work.
poem by Morgan Michaels
Added by Poetry Lover
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