The Postage Stamp
A postage stamp, handsome and male
in a drawer, was fast growing stale.
When two fingers reached in
took him out of the tin,
he was shaking and looked rather pale.
Now two lips and a tongue from above
smacked right down on him – was this love? -
and before he stuck
he considered his luck
but was grabbed by a hand, dressed in glove.
Well – the kiss had intoxicated
his being, all flat and serrated.
So he puckered his lip
BUT was sent on a trip.
Thus the end turned out rather ill-fated.
And you wonder whether it’s true
that your fate always gives you a clue?
It’s the pleasures you miss
if you wait for the kiss
and the aftereffect
of the glue.
Herbert Nehrlich's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (The Postage Stamp by Herbert Nehrlich )
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