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Collected Poems

Modern Love

Modern Love

We often speak
of our technique
as though we handled spanners;
we mate like cats
in modern flats,
our morals match our manners.

The angels in
our dreams of sin
no longer are cherubic;
we've shown that hearts
aren't private parts,
we've put an 'l'in 'pubic'.

At break of day
all cats are grey,
and legion's Eros' cousin;
to sleep with one
is not much fun,
we need a baker's dozen.

The best hotels
have sorting-bells,
and no-one ever hears us;
a drop of gin
absolves our sin,
a change of linen cheers us.

Your sticks and stones
may break our bones,
hard names will never hurt us;
we'll go our way,
still staunchly gay,
till health and wealth desert us.