At the request of a #PawpawFanatic on Facebook, I followed up with a limerick:
This is the first year
That my mom’s not here.
To share
How He cares.
It’s now my turn. That’s clear.
My girlfriend is a sexy thug.
I’ve fallen in love with her Milk Carton mug.
The dairy world calls her a looker.
She makes men want to book her
with that bad girl look that’s so smug.
Don’t be blue.
It’s true!
I’m sorry I missed the chance
to slow (or fast) dance
with you.
We could throw rocks in the lake,/
or watch brats bake/
on the fire/
as our desire/
climbs, like the flames, ever higher.
She didn’t want to dance,
but the tamale took a chance.
Needing to wash her hair,
she met a burrito who didn’t care.
It was just a boogie, not romance.
I should write to you/
a Happy Birthday haiku./
But an annual limerick/
is certainly just as slick,/
And so much easier to do!
She said she wants to go slow/
I am okay with that, and so
I will take my time./
and write a few lines
until she is ready to go!
*(OR: until she is ready fo mo!)
What does a creative guy have to do
to win the chance to go out with you?
Maybe not rhyme
all of the time?
Ok. I won’t! (That is, I’m through!)
Facebook stalking
with no return gawking
is not worth
the deep mirth
and late-night walking.