Meghan, is the thing so frequent
That talks go deep, like ours last week went?
At Tazza, once our fits of pique went,
We parleyed so;
How deep, at Café Angelique, went
Our wounds, you know.
So, irrespective of our gists,
We talk—and no one else exists;
The world outside, no doubt, persists,
But doesn’t tell;
We’re under, like two hypnotists,
Each other’s spell.
And it’s a spell we’re not allowed to
Admit we’re under—we’re both too proud to.
Ask any joker in the crowd to,
Though, he’ll guess it;
But in the Park that night—out loud, too—
We did address it,
And owned how, on our first coup d’oeil,
While outwardly appearing coy,
Each inwardly cried, “Mate ahoy!”
What could that mean?
It has to be the real McCoy,
Else Meghan K****—
Who takes attentions for assault
(And makes her flings her lover’s fault—
If you’re about to protest, halt:
You faulted me)—
Had done at once a backwards vault.
She crossed the same forbidden line
As him, and did a waltz with Klein—
Who danced, like he might spring a mine,
When porcupine loves porcupine,
It’s real affection,
It can’t be something either likes,
Negotiating all those spikes!
To call it “nature” simply strikes
Too nigh the glandes;
And “friendship,” though a term it psychs
You to have handy, ’s
Too shallow of a formulation.
I named it with that adjuration
From Dover Beach—by implication,
And you showed no disapprobation;
So let that stand.