Poetry would not move you
passion could not persuade you to want me
All my mellow dramatics, wounded and battered looks
could not incite your regard.
Despite the worth of a thousand words
by design your heart would not melt
faced with my outrage and tears
Somatic pleasure and sweet embraces
could not arouse your affections-
nor compel the need to debase yourself
to a level of shameful infatuation.
Poetry would not move you
challanged by your good breeding and
cultivated snobbery,
intimacy could hardly tempt your emotions-
love is not easily made in your bed.
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