Perhaps Lord Byron owned a heart-shaped box,
A metal-clasped analogy he'd place
Beside his lover's beds. With awkward knocks,
They'd test its threshold, hoping to embrace
Its errors -- like the limping devil burned
Across the woodwork, with his hidden horns
Worn down and feet unfit for one concerned
With baggage. Surely, he'd make sure to warn
Them not to touch the button on the uh, thing --
Whatever young folk call it anymore.
They make up words for everything, and nothing
Attracts a crowd quite like a metaphor,
Like signs anticipating life: Stop now,
The postings cry, but none of them tell how.
No comments:
Post a Comment