The Unlucky County Sanitation Dept.

Honey, I wrote you a love poem today,
and not any half-witted puppy love poem.

It was a long, dramatic, lyrical ode in the 
Long, Dramatic, Lyrical Ode Tradition™

with marvelous meter, resplendent rhymes, 
sumptuous similes, mouthwatering metaphors, 

and alliteration ad infinitum, plus a few other fillers
I forgot to keep track of—for so damned long 

was my ode to you, so deep my whatever and ever 
for you, so utterly wide and wondrous is your—

boy, was it serious, so very smacking with all that 
syrupy self-negation you somehow learned 

to expect from a man. Venus herself would’ve been 
delighted to wipe her fat pink ass with it.

There was only one problem: none of it was true. 
And Papa said that a man can't write 

“when there is no water in the well.” 
Well, I couldn’t disappoint Papa—

so I lit the match, held it to the pages, 
watched them burn, swept up the ashes,

threw them in the trash can and dragged it to the 
curb with a 'warm dedication' taped to the lid: 

For the Unlucky County Sanitation Dept.— 
Gibberish drawn from a dried-up well...

Wipe your fat pink asses with it!
Then I came back in, changed the locks, 

and wrote this instead, you cannibal. 
Wait!—
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