Sonnet: The Laughing Dead Lady
by John Kendall Hawkins
The laughing dead lady you thought you loved,
who once tempted you with devil's food cake,
turns out to be an asterisk, a footnote fake
you took a bath with. When pushed came to shoved
your Ideal Fem drove you out of the room
you kept your phantasies locked away in --
your groomed sense of privileged, pampered sin
that now, in the cackle's draft, spells your doom.
Maybe you think this is a love poem
sent to charm you with my wild, plastic wit;
a homily to old virtues, in a skit
meant to distract you from the fires of Rome.
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