Contains strong language.
Love is a hairy moth: fickle and fleeting,
Not the knight in shining armour I was promised,
But a balding man who can’t stop eating,
Just a turnip farmer shrouded in Wiltshire mist.
Would it hurt to bring me roses rather than shallots?
Or take me out to a fancy candle-lit dinner?
When, Giles, did you last tell me you loved me a lot?
Oh, and by the way yes, yes I am looking thinner!
Nonetheless, I had attempted to love you, of course!
Yet I did not vow my love to a deranged agriculturalist,
With less affection for me than his beloved horse;
God forsake he who knowingly ties us by the wrist!
And Shakespeare may well say that love is forever:
He never heard your thoughts on the fucking weather.