That you could not control me was my fault
For female wiles oft thrive on this consent
To lock up male passion in a vault
And so contrive to hide all ill intent;
Incarcerate fond love and throw the key
That love might serenade from gilded cage,
But love’s a bird that only sings when free
Languishing quite when trilling but to cadge.
It raised your ire that I not play this game,
What prize to win when you make all the rules?
For living thus does make all worth a sham
And matches such are but the sport of fools.
True love is played out best in equal part,
Mere fealty when chains restrain the heart.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.