by Robert Mezey

If I swung through the jungle on a vine
And beat my chest, impatient to entwine,
Or else came on more civilized, more benign,
And knelt down at your feet or lay supine,
Making vague gestures, an ambiguous sign
Towards the general area of your shrine,
As if suggesting that you too recline,
Or even if I, by accident or design,
Let slip that love is but an anodyne,
A temporary balm, however fine,
Yes, even if I should all love resign
And let my hair grow long and swear off wine
And never write another goddamned line,
Darling, wouldn’t you be my Valentine?



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