I thought I’d write a triolet:
it seemed a macho thing to do.
While some might hunt, or fly a jet,
I thought I’d write a triolet –
not fight a duel nor, stained with sweat,
bring back Medusa's head for you . . .
I thought I’d write a triolet
(it seemed a macho thing to do).
The wimp’s sent me a triolet
and thinks that it impresses me.
I’m not some blushing Juliet.
The wimp’s sent me a triolet.
He could have surfed the internet
and booked us flights to Tuscany
but the wimp’s sent me a triolet
and thinks that it impresses me.
It seems she loved my triolet.
I should have thought of it before
and, though we haven’t done it yet,
it seems she loved my triolet.
I reckon she’s a certain bet
if I compose a couple more.
It seems she loved my triolet.
I should have thought of it before.
Dear Lord, another triolet!
I gagged at what he’d put in print:
‘I crave thine heart, my sweet coquette’ –
Dear Lord! Another triolet
will not get what he wants, poor pet:
you’d think that he would take the hint.
Dear Lord! ANOTHER TRIOLET –
I gagged at what he’d put in print.
The minx returned my triolet.
That madam and her flirtish games.
I love that, playing hard to get,
the minx returned my triolet:
some men, I guess, would be upset
but Love is what her act proclaims.
The minx returned my triolet.
That madam and her flirtish games.
How do you like my triolet?
I cannot stand your mawkish verse
and binned it with the least regret –
How do you like my triolet?
I rue the day on which we met
and each one since has proved a curse!
How do you like my triolet?
I cannot stand your mawkish verse.
Darling, now I’ve thought upon it,
perhaps I should have penned a sonnet.