She read my poem
But she wasn't impressed by the tone
She expected Shakespeare

But I'm not the one

I have no bliss
For a woman to wish
To be my own

She read how I write
And I guess she don't like
What I got going on

She expected Bukowski
Not a poet this lousy

I should've gave up
But it was they way she aroused me
That kept me writing profoundly

Yet I'm still left lonely

The price I paid
Was the cost I lost
Because she expected Robert Frost

She read my poem
But it was only me

She got