To My Coy Penpal


                Had I but stamps enough, and wit,
                This coyness, woman, were not shit.
                I would perhaps then wish to write
                And of my simple dreams make light.
                You in your books might seek to find
                Some gem-like phrase; I'd let my mind
                Wander to subtle quotes. I'd try
                To find some verse to virtue ply;
                And you could, if you wish, require
                An epic poem to light your fire.
                This High Poetic love would grow,
                Stanza by stanza, to skill show.
                A hundred lines should serve to lend
                A likeness of your face; I'd send
                Two hundred to adore each tit,
                And thousands more, to show my wit.
                An ode to least to every part:
                Perhaps a sonnet for your heart.
                For, woman, you deserve no less,
                Nor would I shorter verses bless.

                 But at my pen I often see
                The cost of postage's rising fee:
                And all I'll send will be one page -
                A verse or two to set a stage
                For fond farewells. You will alone
                Seek out the verse, now cold as stone,
                That I once thought. Then worms shall taste
                The letters Post has often raced.
                Your green-inked words will turn to dust;
                And into scrapbooks, all my lust.
                A poem's a fine and fancy thing,
                But does not quite reveal love's sting.

                 Now therefore, while the chance remains
                To meet again without the pains,
                And while our letters can still find
                Each of us without other binds,
                Now let us think that we might play
                With more than words, at least today:
                Rather than wait until the years
                Have chewed us up with all our fears,
                Let us now risk an evening's time
                Without the bother of this rhyme,
                And see if what we each desire
                Might match, and thus our pens retire.
                Thus though we cannot make our mail
                Show thought, yet we can souls empale.


                                                                27/2/78