Yesterday I sent my boyfriend a lovely poem that really expresses my feelings about him in a very clear, honest way. It’s sort of personal, but I’d like to share it with you now. It goes like this:
roses are red,
foxes are clever,
i like your butt,
let me touch it forever.
Did he love it? No.
Did he swoon? No.
Did he feel thankful to have the affection of a woman who takes the time to admire his rump using a construct that has its origins in the epic poem The Faerie Queene written by Sir Edmund Spenser in 1590? Unbelievably, the answer is no. No he did not.
Instead, he said, and I quote, “Um, I’m suddenly thinking sales of the book may be a bit disappointing….” Then he suggested that next time I might try saying it with flowers or (oddly enough) apples.
That’s it. No more romantic gestures for him.