She rides threw verses on motor-sicles, <br />And dental limericks as a drill; <br />If novelty you crave, she'll be your knave- <br />Dragging you up the hill. <br /> <br />She gets there in roundabout ways <br />With energy left to burn, <br />For circling only winds her up, <br />Her writer's wings, to earn. <br /> <br />He strained at her calls, to answer <br />As she waited the high wires; <br />Many a comment he'd have left- <br />But relationships make him tired. <br /> <br />She's a will-o-the-wisp when writing, <br />And she turned his head to vapors, <br />And clippity-clopped herself all around <br />His loathsome dear-John papers. <br /> <br />He gets them out ahead of time, <br />He never will be late; <br />His heart is halfway in it but <br />His soul gives in to fate. <br /> <br />Now this is not real life; oh no- <br />All this is only fiction; <br />For he fell in love (for all her smiles) <br />With just her mortal diction. <br /> <br />And now I turn and tap my shoes <br />And go back in the bottle- <br />There's his mustache, possessed again- <br />By a certain wattle..<br /><br />Patti Masterman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pre-possessive/
