in elegiac couplets
who is the one that will take these couplets and speak of them no more?
Darling Lolita of course—mother of verses so pure.
softly she seizes them, holding them tightly inside her once spry hands
obeying not one god—only the writers commands.
scribbles from her hands press against trifles so barren
time flies, passes and she, tired and dead is again
left with this poet's ungodly and sickening pleasures, so playful:
silly yet still deafened—silently waiting for dull
lulls to undoubtedly push her now dry eyes into the slumber
she craves sweetly and true: 'til the inceptions turn
silently, brightening up her once stale lines, covered with hard prose,
God, life, children and all. verses are always her foes.
still my Lolita deciphers what poets' unpoems could all mean:
blissfully she laughs hard—wondering what she has seen.