Sunday, February 12, 2006


When Cupid draws his little bow
and, laughing, lets his arrow go,
the sensible will run and hide
yet fools like I oft times abide.

And then I spout these words of love,
as though inspired from above,
but every line is still cliche,
like candy on Saint Valentine’s day.

It can’t be helped, those chestnuts come;
‘twould be better were I dumb!
I lose what modest wit I claimed,
when Cupid’s arrow is well aimed.

So should I babble, remember this:
naught shuts me up quite like a kiss

Stephen Brooke ©2006

a bit of silly pastiche for the season

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