I am a poet, yes, but I sing only of
what I know, and all of that is
bicycles, the cries of the giraffe,
loneliness, and walks on
radioactive beaches.

So what is this, when you
ask me to write a love poem?
For three days, I have sat and
tried to write; and from my hand
has only come three arduous lines:

"I shall **** your ******* so hard
that your external **** sphincter shall
forever cease to function."

What the hell was that, I beseech you?
Our poets down the ages, have
written love poems on their paramours' blue
eyes, their raven-black hair, their fair
faces, yet mine is of my lover's rear?

Alas, this love song is no better than
a ******'s, as it lacks compassion,
eroticism, sentimental
tear-filled eyes and superficial flirting words.
It is nothing fit for a Valentine's Day card.

But know, my darling, my aim was true;
I wished only to express my love for you.
At your disdain, your unhappiness, with my
threat toward an orifice, I've written five
lines of some things that I do happen to know:

"The weeping giraffe,
rode his blue bike
in silence,
down the contaminated beach,
lamenting his loneliness."

In the tears of that giraffe can be found
my great love for you.