The writer of prosaic poems

            That made a haiku seem

            A bit too long

            Came sauntering in, a thing

            Slung on his arm with a guitar

            Draped on her back

 

            He smiled at us across the room

            And he had reason to

            From what I saw

 

            Until she strummed a chord

            And sang

 

            Her voice was sweet as pie,

            Her eyes like dancing fire

            But when I recognised the twisted lyrics

            Dribbling out the corners of her lovely mouth

            As rancid juices of the would-be poet’s

            Semi-chewed morceaux

 

            I recognised a woman who was far too gone

            Behind the sockets and above the nose

            To risk for charms below

 

            So

 

            I gave my philosophe a squeeze

            Whose being at my side

            Was nothingness perhaps to hers

            And others at the crowded bar,

            Although her French, bless her,

            For me at least

            Theoretically

            Might count

            At times

            For more