delilah_banks

To My Master, from Your Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough, and time,
to think of this pathetic rhyme.
Many years and drafts to write,
yet I am here plump and ripe
waiting for that day to come
when roses are replaced with hums.
That echoing song, you always say,
has to wait for another day.
Sure, we all die with time,
but dying here in my prime
because artists work is in the way?
(Im thinking, sir, that you are gay.)
Two hundred to adore each breast?
then why not touch my sacred crest?
Your cackling voice is in my face,
because prudish girls always wait.
But think again, for time has come,
being fashionable is not a nun.

That preserved virginity I hold so dear,
has just flown out the window, as did last year.
For I have found the worm, you say,
to puncture me and take it away.
Think dearly about that roaming cock,
and now, think about the hawk.
Did he peck with gentle force,
or was he like a bucking horse?
Jealousy, I bid you not,
sprung about from that cock.
Death of one was the test,
and all he wanted was to rest.
Something else, you should know,
is about that working crow.
Black as night, soft and sleek,
and all he wanted was to eat
that coy and little mouse
that but lived in your house.
And so, his quest was won,
he saved me from being your nun.
Farewell I say, and this be true,
for I am no longer your little prude.