FRANKENSTEIN
I wrote you a poem,
off the top-of-my-head,
and away with you
my verse then sped
(my imagination ran away with you).
You didn't like poetry,
or so you had said.
What a monster this
to steal you from your bed,
take you where wild-flowers grew.
While birds in the trees
sang above your head,
behind the verse-lines
you then read
with the morning shining through.
Now you are back,
very-safe in bed,
my poem in your hand -
find its monstosity fled -
saying you now like poetry too.
I-HAVE-A-HANGOVER-GIRL
I can't recall your face.
The features are without hope,
while it is my mind's eye
peers down the wrong-end of a telescope.
All I have is your first name
that slipped from my tongue
when I awoke this morning
under a cloud and over-hung.
We met in a bar last night,
spent time in your bed.
I've a sickness in my stomach
and a pain inside my head.
I'd like to say it was good
but I can hardly recall a thing
other than your first name, girl.
Mine the last you'll be remembering !
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