How Do I Love Thee, Jan Allison
I wish I spoke in fancy English tone,
And not this southern-bred American;
So more politely I could pick a bone,
When snooty judgments come from Isle of Man;
I wish existed ways to turn back time,
To teach a special friend about a war,
Where young colonies won their right to rhyme,
And be subjected cruelly nevermore.
It seems my sonnets, jealous limericks,
Of twenty words that often speak of poo,
For stones too weak decide instead on sticks,
To beat much better lines to residue.
Of course, I’m kidding, Jan, I hope that’s CLEAR,
It’s not your fault you write in foreign AIR.
**That'll learn her for placing my brilliant poem
about passing gas in public 39th out of 40 entries.
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