Lavinia were you walking in the park?
Arm in arm with that pompous chanticleer
Singing in your sweet ear, a Sonneteer
Tongue-teasing rhymes told by that knave Petrach
Your ice blue eyes bright lit by sudden spark
Even blushes on your soft cheek appear
As if you found his every word sincere
Repeated in his carriage after dark

Master of dark magic hidden in verse
Your velvet rose virtue is your treasure
Lock it away from enticing word
On that vile poet will I set a curse
Venus come down and thwart all his pleasure
E**specially, I beg his days be numbered.

Don't ******* write about me
No, neither for me
Because there is nothing worse
Nothing so utterly despicable
Than the words
Of an infatuated man.

You are not Yeats,
I am not Gonne.
And I like to think
That Laura never died
But rather escaped
From Petrach's lines.

Do not treat what I tell you
As some great epiphany
As anything other
Than the words of a fellow idiot.

All I want
Is to rest
Without
Being called
A ******* muse
Some fuel
For your abhorrent
Creations

That is not me.
You are not Yeats.
But I am gone.