Though you say you’ve no haven where is she,
she whom you turn to when you turn away?
Your profession of love, fiction to me,
is strong as lines from some fanciful play
where heroes’ promises fall like the rain,
only to be swept away with the wind,
while the leading lady is left in pain
to wrestle with love, beat, bested and pinned.
Where is this love you promised to honour?
Though I wait, ‘tis in vain, ‘tis but futile.
Am I but a taste, a passing flavour?
Am I thrown over for some hot new style?
You lie when you moon on about my lyre.
Save such lines for objects of your desire.