Us Potes
Swift was sweet on Stella;
Poe had his Lenore;
Burns’s fancy turned to Nancy
And a dozen more.
Pope was quite a trifler;
Goldsmith was a case;
Byron’d flirt with any skirt
From Liverpool to Thrace.
Sheridan philandered;
Shelley, Keats, and Moore
All were there with some affair
Far from lit’rachoor.
Fickle is the heart of
Each immortal bard.
Mine alone is made of stone—
Gotta work too hard.
