Worn rough from the sandpaper of your searing sight,
I resolved, “No more!”
No more gifts,
No more time spent in the cave of torture,
Hoping for the berk of your love to anchor in my heart.
No – not ever.

Still, the oil of your oestregen
Oozed in my veins,
Morphing the yonder of youth into a base, bashing beat,
Commercialising you
As ******* legs *******.
Your coyness choked Cupid’s chances.

Right, then. It went like this –
You were on the field with friends
So I spotted your unguarded satchel,
Bright blue and brown,
Still dressed in the mist of your perfume,
Beckoning me into its *****.

Accepting,
I lunged forward,
Clutching and fondling it.
Brown-noser Duduzile saw me, told me you were angry.
All I could offer was one explanation –
“I was shooing a grasshopper away.” I hate you.