The postman rang, <br />not once but twice, <br />his Irish Twang <br />sounds pretty nice, <br />delivering to affluents <br />beats 'cross the tracks <br />where they have stashed the effluents. <br />Dear John, or Max, <br />the letter read <br />when you read this <br />our love is dead. <br />Sealed with no kiss. <br /> <br />I won't be ringing on the phone, <br />though writing sucks <br />without the tone. <br />Well, here's some ducks <br />and pelicans <br />and John Greene Deere <br />chews jellykins <br />and sprays the weir <br />goes round and round <br />and squints his eyes, <br />it's not the ground <br />but pale-skinned thighs <br />and curves attract <br />I see he's mowed <br />now once again, <br />and barely slowed <br />thus are the men, <br />testosterone, <br />brain in a bag <br />Potomkin's bone <br />lifts up the rag. <br />Well, see you John <br />it says in bold <br />Methinks a letter is too cold.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dear-john-5/
