iambic puntameter

My love, I think, looks down on Love, you see,
For loss of time spent laughing at poor me,
Moreso her love lies in sweet Comedy,
So I did try to make a twin of he,
And I his mirror would attempt to be,
So by default, I hoped, she would love me.
There in my hopes to myself represent,
As one wreathed in laughter's own merriment,
I recognized my task; make two as one,
Therefore, what prop more fit to use than Pun?
A single pun will not suffice in this,
For laughter's best enjoyed when in excess,
Though would I not too broadly over-do,
Ten puns I'll pen; most metric, even, true.
And though the number seems set-up and staged,
Read on, for at poem's end my plan is paged.
I felt empowered, now, so fittingly,
A tool to make her laugh side-splittingly,
Collected I my wits and stores of glee,
That I may execute them properly,
Until we chanced upon a perfect day,
And I let loose my tongue, and fired away,
At first, an ante of low chips I threw,
And, sure enough, these common puns she knew:
She'd heard the one about the doctor's fee,
That was so rightly put on mallard's bill,
And of the soldier wounded rectally,
So that, it's said, it did him nearly kill.
She sighed at these. I needs be far more keen,
Perhaps some more will do. I told her how,
A man fell in an upholst'ry machine,
But not to fear--he's all recovered now,
Or how the oldest shepherds never die,
They just keep spinning yarns beneath the sky.
But none of these did make her lips to smile,
So I pressed on to further her beguile,
Of songs, she would prefer, and lyric, too,
In music, and my art, can one take glee,
Much like the man that often broke into,
A song because he'd gone and lost the key,
I thought, now could I do much worse,
Than backwards poets who can write inverse?
How could these, then, my auditor refuse?
Alas, they did naught but a groan induce,
I dug myself a deeper hole, a ditch,
Attempting in a more romantic vein:
As two in love jumped from a Paris bridge,
It's now believed that they must be in Seine.
Forgive me, dear, I begged, I'll soon correct,
And make a sly appeal to intellect,
By prinicple, if you must rebus, then,
To ride you must your fare share pay again.
A smile! A chance! Affection's favor's near!
I must admit, too eager did I start,
At that; I said she was a very dear,
And that she'd run away with my own hart.
She'd had enough by then. "Oh, please," she cried,
"The best of these pathetic jokes are dumb.
They're just so bad you can't, by right, take pride,
But look at how conceited you've become."
So you can see just why, by her reply,
I loved her wit, more finely-honed than mine.
My cheek she kissed, consoling me, "Nice try."
With that she left; I'd only got to nine.
So then, to wrap my tale of failed attempt,
Recount, you may, as I close in lament.
Ten puns had I brought for her ear to judge,
Nine out of ten she did not care for much,
I hoped her love, through laughter, to extract,
Alas, poor me, no pun in ten did that.

Absolutely brilliant. Ok, that's all I got right now. I've been meaning to put this page down for a while, as you can tell from the time between the most recent posts. I just got a second job, so that, plus school, plus . ..whatever. Too much, too much. I'll leave all this crap up for a while, but I may get sick of lookin' at it and take it down soon. So, get plagarisin' while the plagarisin's good! I do plan on starting up another incarnation of Insuffera B in the near future--maybe after this semester's over, or if I actually learn to write. If you don't know me personally, and would like to be "notified" via "email" of my return to the "WWW", then drop me a line at: catanomial (at) yahoo (diz-ot) com. Or if you just want someone to cry on, I'm good for that, too.

Love you guys,

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