My poetry, there’s no help for you
Now that she—my love!—tells me what to do.
I had a good idea for a poem yesterday;
A good poem!—she looked at me and it flew away.
My poetry, we need to talk.
In the sunlight, by the sea, we’ll walk.
Lately I’ve given up your lying
To think of her; you’ve heard me sighing.
My poetry, you haven’t got a prayer
Against her; she is Iranian. And rare.
She has a full head of dark brown hair.
My poetry, I am happy. Please don’t despair
If you are not good. I will always care.
My poetry, there’s no hope for you,
Except when I repeat what she has to say—
And when she stops looking at me I may.