Here I am thinking,
You were nicer to me
When you were pregnant
Now all you do is
Give me a frown,
An abrupt look away
So I urge you,
Become pregnant again,
And walk in through the hallway
On a bright sunny morning
So we can be friends again
Then I can stop kicking myself,
And stop writing pedantic poetry like this,
Quoting the only Lord Byron fragment I remember,
“And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?*
*Lord Byron, in his “The Isles of Greece”
