Dear John Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

The postman rang,
not once but twice,
his Irish Twang
sounds pretty nice,
delivering to affluents
beats 'cross the tracks
where they have stashed the effluents.
Dear John, or Max,
the letter read
when you read this
our love is dead.
Sealed with no kiss.

I won't be ringing on the phone,
though writing sucks
without the tone.
Well, here's some ducks
and pelicans
and John Greene Deere
chews jellykins
and sprays the weir
goes round and round
and squints his eyes,
it's not the ground
but pale-skinned thighs
and curves attract
I see he's mowed
now once again,
and barely slowed
thus are the men,
testosterone,
brain in a bag
Potomkin's bone
lifts up the rag.
Well, see you John
it says in bold
Methinks a letter is too cold.