Romance is dead despite a mild flicker of life just outside Barons Court

Girl with Bench on her bum
Wearing black
Up to and including her black hat.
There’s Bench where she might recently have sat upon.
The face obscured she remains anon,
Slender, pale, but by no means wan.
A flash of blonde appears from the black hat’s behind.
(With which very little has ever rhymed).
Thus I pined for the girl which she really is not,
With hair all brunette and no Bench on her bot,
Whom I’ve got near the point just recently,
Of saying she’ll stoop to go out with me –
If only my cowardice would let me agree.
I flee from the power that desire lords over
My instinct to avoid certain post-coital hangover,
And grass stains one gets from a roll in the clover…
Stop! Ode’s over before it could start –
Before I could sickeningly mention ‘my heart’,
For that would mean transport to Staines in a handcart!
My art henceforth cheapened, I shall proceed to fuck off and do something else for a bit.