Thursday, February 14, 2019


Her daddy pointed a big-shotgun.
Said "Marry my daughter or you're dead, son.
In seven months the stork will arrive,
so get over here boy and look-alive !
Two months pregnant is my little girl.
Say your prayers and goodbye to the world,
or come right here and be wedded
to she whom you went and bedded !"
Those were the days before the Pill
way up there on Hillbilly-Hill.
Those were the days when sex was a sin
and not as healthy as a hillside spring.
And so they married, the child kept hush
till the stork left it under the gooseberry-bush.

My girl and I lay together spooned.
Outside the window the night was mooned.
The stars, like eyes, our bodies ate
with their glare, our bed their plate.
I did not take her for my wife.
We did not pair like fork and knife.
My girl and I lay together in a spoon
while poured-down upon us a honeyed-moon.

My pen says more
than can I
when we speak
eye to eye.

My heart says more
than can I
when we meet.
I'm too shy.

Convention's surely
not my line,
but hear this:
be my valentine.

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