I loved a delicious girl
when I was 14,
and what a girl she was:
blond and sparkling beauty,
with just a hint
of naughtiness
in her smile.
And so in class,
where literature was
supposed to be the order
of the boring day,
I sat admiring her luscious mane
that I so wanted to touch,
O so much,
but I never did,
for she never let anyone
touch her hair,
except her friends.
My passion for her grew
in poetic form,
in my loving couplets
and juicy sonnets,
and so I wrote verses of love-
can I now recall?
Oh yes:
“Your lips are plump cherries
that I want to eat and crush
with my manly eager mouth”,
or something to that effect.
Dear me!
No wonder she turned away
and spurned my bleeding soul,
and never looked me in the eye.
She must have thought me
ever so weird,
and so did my teacher,
if I recall.
But persist I did,
with poems of love divine
that she promptly threw in the bin
and with them pieces of
my tender, fragile heart.
O how dramatic!
Really?
Tone it down, young fella!
But that’s just the way I was
as a boy of 14,
with my poetry and hormones
in playful embrace,
and she playing the game of
hardball and hard-to-get;
I bet she really liked
my bloody, bleeding poems,
but she never said.
The years rolled by,
or so the cliche goes,
but I have never forgotten
the delicious blond haired girl
who sat in my class
and fired my soul
and spurred my desire
and turned me into
a drivelling romantic fool.
18/3/2017