I wonder, sometimes, why it is a fact,
A gifted, handsome man should be alone.
My iambic pentameter’s intact,
And yet I tend to lyric on my own.
Alliteration alienates romance.
The ladies scorn my struggle with cliché
They scoff, then aggravated, wring their hands.
Yet still I need to couplet every day.
I’m thinking as I sit beside my date,
“I’ll syllable you soon if I am able.”
At times my meter renders me irate.
It’s difficult to rhythm at the table.
“Another cup?” I search her face for clues.
She looks a little bored. It can’t be me.
I pass the menu for her to peruse.
“Why don’t you try a blended Chinese tea?”
I’m formulating ditties as she speaks.
She says she’d rather go. She’s rather hot.
“Do stay. I’ve ordered brussels sprouts and leeks.”
Her grimace indicates she’d rather not.
I wonder if I’ve aimed a little low.
Her diction leaves a lot to be desired.
I’d like to teach her how to ebb and flow,
But ‘clueless’ leaves me, frankly, uninspired.
She fidgets nervously and looks away.
I wonder if the woman is a freak.
“I hope you’re not illiterate,” I say.
I may have been a little indiscreet.
My fears were justified, she’s never heard
Enjambment quite like mine in all her days.
She slaps my face and tells me I’m absurd,
Then dumps me in a non-poetic daze.
I could have blessed her with a monologue;
Enthralled her with the kernel of my quill;
enchanted her with dazzling dialogue,
if only she’d have stayed to pay the bill.
Now, woe is me. I’m lost and incomplete.
Lamenting my position; full of doubt.
Deliberating how a man can eat
A double share of leeks and brussels sprouts.