Poets alone should kiss and tell.
If, with the literate, I am
Impelled to try an epigram,
I never seek to take the credit;
We all assume Oscar said it.
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Every year, back comes Spring,
with nasty little birds yapping
their fool heads off and the ground
all mucked up with plants.
Hollywood money isn’t money. It’s congealed snow, melts in your hand, and there you are.
It costs me never a stab or squirm
to tread by chance upon a worm
“Aha, my little dear,” I say,
“Your clan will pay me back one day.”
My land is bare of chattering folk;
the clouds are low along the ridges,
and sweet’s the air with curly smoke,
from all my burning bridges.
Woman wants monogamy:
man delights in novelty.
Love is woman’s moon and sun;
man has other forms of fun.
Woman lives but in her lord;
Count to ten and man is bored.
With this the gist and sum of it,
What earthly good can come of it?
I never thought I’d get here.
By the time you swear you’re his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying –
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
Women and elephants never forget.