The scofflaw will plunder any orchard, come autumn.
To conform, I must girdle my hips and my bottom.
Love is to clover what matte is to smatter.
Should your head itch, not thinking, but dandruff’s the matter.
For a lack of affection there’s no known remedy.
At the sushi bar she ordered plum wine, same as me.
On paper, love triangles are always obtuse.
The light of the lime isn’t lime, but chartreuse.
(hat tip to ron hardy!)
Friday, September 18, 2009