Hey, he’s dead -
just leave him
and come with me;
I’ll get you another one -
he’ll be warm
and let you rest your head on his broad chest
comfy and nice.
Just dump this one;
he’s been dead long enough
and will not return to give you a hug
bring back some flowers, bread or meat
or to annoy you with unwashed dishes.
Get up and stop this mourning
and trust me
for I’ve got a bow and arrow
and rarely do I miss my mark;
and though my name may rhyme with Stupid
and I may be portrayed in the galleries
as a mere child
trust me
I know more about these matters of the heart
than generations of men and women
who have ever lived on this planet earth
and who have ever loved
and who are all now buried
or fired up into ash;
so come,
sweetheart –
and, in the language of the poets,
I’ll show you fresh green pastures
or an ocean full of fish, if you like;
or, to pursue folk-imagery if you prefer,
let sleeping dogs lie, as they might say –
so let dead men rest in pieces where they are;
you come with me now and I’ll use my arrow
to pin down for you a suitable one –
a man alive, whole and who can return kisses
when you give one;
come with me,
sweetheart – the living don’t call me Cupid for nothing…
and if you don’t come
then you deserve the name that rhymes with mine.
Come, we’ll go catch what you want;
and these days, we can even internet you one.