I can't ever fail
To remember this tale.
She fell from above.
He swore it was love
But of course, she knew better,
Diverting each letter
From doormat to bin
With a mutter at him
And his endless processions
Of scribbled confessions.

He carefully wrote
A new, better note.
Though he knew she destroyed them,
Obsession still buoyed him:
His eyes closed to seal
Yet another appeal,
His lips mouthing bliss
In a fanciful kiss,
His tongue barely damp
As it scraped up the stamp.

One Tuesday, it was,
(Her Mum thought because
She was lacking in drive)
When she saw it arrive,
She gave in to wonder
And, under the thunder
Of summer's last scream,
Read his regular dream.
Sliced clean to the core
She lusted for more,
So ran with a torch
To the trash by the porch.

"O Princess, you're gold;
I imagine to hold
You're electrical joy,"
Wrote her irritant boy,
"Don't reply, or perfection
Is gone." Just one section
Sat fast in her mind
Once the bin was re-lined:
"You're sex on a stick.
May I please have a lick?"