Swell, all! Here's one from me. Man, do I sound pathetic!
KATE THE CURSED!
I’d present her, of course, but she’s scared to shake hands.
I’d put her on stage but in spotlights she quakes.
She’s travelled to very few near or far lands.
She’s phobic of planes and agoras and snakes.
She’s happiest when her companionship’s virtual.
She’s made more of words than of skin, bone and blood.
It’s easy to shock her and hurt her. Don’t flirt. You will
nip camaraderie right in the bud.
She doesn’t own pooches or parrots or cats.
She doesn’t have children, she doesn’t have means.
She doesn’t wear high heels or high flowered hats.
She doesn’t eat lobster or foul lima beans.
What does she, what does she, what does she love?
A poet named Hopkins, a poet named Frost.
When will she throw down a bellicose glove?
When she feels undervalued, neglected or bossed.
Which is most of the time when she’s out of the house
working at jobs that require commitment,
a happy-talk outlook when she'd rather grouse,
not turn a blind eye to pervasive nitwitment.
The lady’s a dull, hypercritical bore!
The death of the party, unsocially skilled,
Rectitude's midwife, Solitude's whore—
such was she fated, such was it willed.
She comes home at seven and fastens the locks,
turns on the Sony and unplugs the phone,
scrapes off her makeup and flicks off her socks
and dances a truncated tango, alone.
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