A Perfect Sunday

Said I to her, "I suffer torpor;"
She to me, "You are a slug."
We drank our coffee,
Read the paper, stripped,
And rolled upon the rug.
Said she, "The day has gotten brighter;"
I, "Our rutting made it so."
We found our clothing,
And we dressed. A play
Was staged. We didn't go.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 12 times
Written on 2013-01-22 at 15:05

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