For Lord Byron Poem by Teedy Dawn

Sir, you mock the frailties of my sex,
Yet, seek to indulge yourself in all its imperfections.
Your romantic narratives embellish love,
Though, it is squandered on that which you cannot have.

You scourge the infamy of your class,
Yet, delight in the debauchery of your own reputation.
Are you wicked imp sent from hell?
Or, loveless, fallen angel?

Should I meet you I would, no doubt, fall,
Helpless, into the shadow of your nightmare.
Perchance to wake, cold and lifeless,
On the shore of some hot and distant land.

Then you would come, like a hero,
With words to wash over my soul,
And return me to life.