If memory serves, your plate it is full,
though your appetite may yet wait on taste.
You have a mistress whose senses grow dull.
In aiming to please, she tends towards waste,
in stalking her prey, she poisons the game;
in loving, a novice; in teasing, a tart;
in artful discretion, public house shame;
inelegance writ large, from whole to part.
But you’ve made your bed, in that I won’t lie;
you’ve turned the tide, now ebbing to woe.
Save recollections.  Bid farewell and sigh,
as day follows day from summer to snow.
   One morn you will turn to love once was true ,
   weeping oceans of tears, salty and blue.