Desire watches through the tall grass
Blades skipping past her face with no class
The target sipped from the stream of routine
Believing itself well equipped
Sometimes all alone at other times in a relationship
Then the wind whips, and desire is quick
Chasing down the target till it’s in her teeth
A struggle ensues but is brutally brief
Suddenly through the air a shrill whistles soars
Desire retreats to its master, happy with its score
And there stands a childish figure, famous from lore
Sensing the mayhem, from above cry the sparrows
Cupid winks and says “I don’t always use arrows.”