I’m so done with that Miss Vicky
Love bomb poem didn’t sticky
Blind like a bat, she cannot see
What could have been, what ought to be.
But it doesn’t matter to me
Don’t care about what could not be
Got a plan to set my heart free
In the next stanza, you will see.
I got game at Harris Teeter
Probably find someone sweeter
Fresh pickins’ in the produce aisles
Hotter stuff with come hither smiles.
Written in 1918 by Bob Boyd, who was a humble and distinguished Scottish Lord, while taking the waters to cure his aching heart at the celebrated Sturbridge Spa in Sturbridge, Massachusetts.
Author: BobBoyd
79, cancer survivor, work out 3 times a week, ride my exercise bike 2 hours daily. Began writing poetry October 2023, living in Greensboro, North Carolina, originally from just outside of Boston, MA.
Retired and enjoying a solo, reclusive life always researching and gaining knowledge. Most of my poems are fictional.
I write about many things: Spirituality, Mysticism, the Paranormal, Cryptids, Werewolves, Ghosts, 411s, Nature, Birds, Animals, Romantic Love, Death, NDEs, Women Persecuted as Witches, Fictional Characters I Create, News Stories, AI, Robots, Insects, like the poem entitled, Hail Caesar Bob, (about when bees were swarming me outside the door to my apartment), and many other topics. I write a minimum of 3 poems daily, sometimes more. I like and abide by the saying life's too short to be taken too seriously.
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