Let me not at the surgence of small blobs
Admit euphoria, love is not love
Which postpones fructuous issue and thus robs
Me of the fruitage I am worthy of.
O no, the season has a fixèd mark,
August would have been the time to ballyhoo,
But you are not even in the ball park,
With your greenish pods, puny and too few.
Love suffers long—too long. Do not ignore
A rankled hausfrau’s loss of faith, young friend.
Pinchfist puttings-out got you the chop, before.
Indifferency will bring a bloody end.
If this be smallness where I should be big,
I never cared, nor ever gave a fig.
I enjoyed this little exchange at dinner last night:
William: “I’ll never go to parties where people are trying to give you their drugs.”
Callie: “Those people might be doctors.”
William: “Valid point. But I’m talking about parties where people are swinging from the mantle and throwing bottles of ketchup at each other.”
I don’t know where he gets these ideas. It’s as if he’s grown up watching zany Jerry Lewis movies in which hijinks ensue. But we’ve been diligent about restricting his media consumption to “tv shows from the 80s that Dave was allowed to watch but I wasn’t” and Hayao Miyazaki films. It’s baffling.