She loves my wicked pen,
My wicked pen of non-commitment,
For she is married already,
My wicked pen is what makes her heady.
"Write me, write to me autumn's poet,
Spare no ink,
Use it all,
I'm so glad you're BIG and tall,
A perfect fit for my impassioned parchment,
Spread your ink rich and thick,
I can't get enough of it."
She said exasperatedly,
She is a married young lady.
Dear young married ladies,
I can not muse this from the vanities of my imagined mind,
It has happened to many times,
With young married ladies in passions sublime.
She might be twenty-three as she looks at me,
She could be thirty-four but older I will not go,
She is twenty-seven with a build from heaven,
She is twenty-five with curvaceous legs and killer eyes,
She is thirty-three and looks nineteen,
And she keeps giving me golden things.
Nine young married women in all
From short and skinny too brawny shoulders bonny and tall,
Like sleek golden leopards on the hunt,
Really, they are not asking too much,
Just looking for the older poet as their prey,
All they want to do is play,
With deep felt passions in every way,
Yes, their husbands keep them just as a display.
So here is to the young married women,
My dear friends from short too tall,
Lovely intelligent ladies all,
Slender and sleek with impassioned feet,
Your love I promise to keep,
But, be weary lovely young married ladies,
Love of passions may fall deeper,
Turning to love of soul and spirit,
For an autumn poet a generation away,
Things are going beyond play,
The young married lady starts to wonder,
Deeper passions may be her blunder,
Or her plunder.
I wonder what will be the poet's epithet,
"Here lays their autumn muse,
They used him well but never abused,
They loved him to death,
Never giving him a rest,
But he fulfilled their passion's request."
Or will it be what ended me,
"A bullet to the chest,
Which husband is anyone's guess"