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Winding up

Oh! How can I forget your face
The tenderness, of your embrace
Your precious smile, that gentle kiss
These things, I know, I’ll always miss

The way you’d squeeze and hold me tight
While making love all through the night
And how you’d talk the whole day long
Or sing some sad old country song

The times we had, and we had some
But sadly now the time has come
Two people left with broken hearts
Because you can’t control your farts

Editing stage: 


Dammit, you had me going. I was just on the cusp of trying to find some way to express my condolences at your loss when...
You know there is a special little section of Hell for poets.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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can dare to comment ..
NOT a workshop piece ,
I gather.

Creativity itself is an art
modern poetry should
must be more creative ,
not extolling the values of dead poets ,
who had no guidance ,
as we have here in Neopet


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