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.

Bob Boyd