Pre-Possessive Poem by Patti Masterman

She rides threw verses on motor-sicles,
And dental limericks as a drill;
If novelty you crave, she'll be your knave-
Dragging you up the hill.

She gets there in roundabout ways
With energy left to burn,
For circling only winds her up,
Her writer's wings, to earn.

He strained at her calls, to answer
As she waited the high wires;
Many a comment he'd have left-
But relationships make him tired.

She's a will-o-the-wisp when writing,
And she turned his head to vapors,
And clippity-clopped herself all around
His loathsome dear-John papers.

He gets them out ahead of time,
He never will be late;
His heart is halfway in it but
His soul gives in to fate.

Now this is not real life; oh no-
All this is only fiction;
For he fell in love (for all her smiles)
With just her mortal diction.

And now I turn and tap my shoes
And go back in the bottle-
There's his mustache, possessed again-
By a certain wattle..