My Name's not Claude

With customary lack of grace,
I crash my own into her face,
And tread phalanges as we dance
While bruiting our new romance,
Which is, it seems, already stressed.
My lover frowns. Is she depressed?
She is, she says, then (this is odd)
Blurts, "You are such a dreadful clod!"



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 19 times
Written on 2013-01-06 at 15:14

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