The Postman, in the Slot for Mail,
Hath flung your Card, at which my Spirits fail;
For lo! the Houri of my Heart hath trapped
My future Ev’nings in a Social Jail.
And so, my Friend, to what a dull Carouse
I go – a Dinner at her Parents’ House –
Foie gras and Pheasant: such a barren Board,
But with their Daughter I am but a Mouse.
And now your Words reviving old Desires;
my thoughtful Mind to Memories retires,
to your White Hand upon the Cooking Pot,
and all your Old Receipts upon the Fires...
A James Blunt CD played that Bit too long;
Lasagne (burnt), and Beer – the usual Throng
around me, baying; how can I resist? –
Alas! I must – such Heaven must be Wrong...