Fed Up With Love

I think I’ll take a powder if I hear just one more sigh

I think I’ll grab a bucket if that wimp begins to cry

I’d like to take a catapult and launch them way up high

The moaning, sighing, groaning, crying lovers

I pity those Jane Austen types afflicted with gentility

They sound so prim and proper and their phrases ooze fragility

The state they seem to crave the most is meek respectability

The prudish, stuffy, broodish, huffy lovers

I frown when I encounter works weighed down with grave turgidity

Despising real emotion and upholding cold frigidity

If nothing else, they score a point for causing souls’ morbidity

The automatic, regulated, systematic, non-hydrated lovers

I wince when someone rants and raves and spouts offensive bile

And thinks that cursing partners equals literary style

I wish someone would bury them beneath a steaming pile

of spiteful, vicious, vile, malicious lovers