A Penny for Your Thoughts (Love in the Time of Coronavirus)
A penny for your thoughts, my dear, in this time of recession. They’re only worth a pittance, since you’re in deep depression— perhaps the worst since man evolved from the primordial slime. If I cared less, I’d offer zilch, but now is not the time to be looking for bargains, with your love so newly won. If only we could ditch our masks and have a little fun— a little kiss, a little hug, a cuddle and a snuggle— it might be easier to woo without these rules to juggle. But from day-to-day, I fear, we never can know whether we’ll spend the day alone again or spend the day together. So here’s a penny for your thoughts. Oh hell, it’s worth a nickel to know whether your heart is true or if it has turned fickle. It’s been said before that absence makes the heart grown fonder. I wonder if you feel the same sequestered over yonder.
South sea island cruises do not stir up my lust. I fear that all my passions have succumbed to mold and dust. All that iron will to love has come to naught but rust. To date, there is no counter urge that says, “My dear, you must!” It never was my temperament to plot and scheme and plan complicated maneuvers to try to catch a man, but still I found that now and then one drifted into view that caused me to examine my attitudes anew.
Perhaps my behavior included one or two of the tiniest maneuvers by which I hoped to woo. It may be that in passing, I allowed the slightest brush of my arm and his arm and blamed it on the crush of bodies in the elevator, even though the fact is that the elevator was not so tightly packed. Nonetheless, my hints were subtle, for I rarely pined for a lustful body over a brilliant mind.
So if you want to woo me, do it over books. For me a silver tongue will always win out over looks. Write with wit and logic, original and kind. Fan my imagination. Seduce my wild mind. My upper arms are flabby, but my mind is sharp and taut. To woo me, try to judge me not for all that I am not. The only one to win me would be one of my own kind. The only nuptials I seek are marriages of mind.
Photo by Nathan Anderson on Unsplash, used with permission
The Butler and the Upstairs Maid
The butler and the upstairs maid once freed from bed and table resumed their hugs and kisses whenever they were able. He wooed her in the garden shed, the pantry and the granary. Not a place excluded from their extreme chicanery.
When traveling with her mistress, she could not help but fret. His passions unabated, he was always in a sweat. Within them both, the hormones were perpetually churning. How could they do their duties with these fires of romance burning?
At last, master and mistress called the vicar of the parish. What were they to do about this behavior most garish? They met this couple making love at every hallway’s turning. How were they to deal with these excesses of yearning?
The vicar in his wisdom knew the answer right away, so the problems of their dalliance was able to allay. Their passions once unquenchable were vanquished all too soon as soon as they were back again from their honeymoon.
My love is not a work of art. He hasn’t any poise. When he tries to sing a song, it comes across as noise. He writhes instead of dancing. His rhythm’s nonexistent. When germs land upon him, if they are nonresistant, they get sick instead of him, for they have met their match. He has no hair upon his head except for one small batch that grows out of each nostril, so I really needn’t mention that when it comes to loving him, I have no competition. Yet in spite of all, he coincides with my fond wishes. He may not have much cooking, but at least he does the dishes!
And for a little musical accompaniment to the poem, go HERE.