My boyfriend’s eyes are nothing like the stars;
Jupiter is far more brilliant that his teeth’s white:
If silk be smooth, why then his hands are shards;
If wit be hobbled than his wit stumbles with style.
I have seen six packs of beer, frosty and chaste,
But no such packs see I in his stomach;
And some baked goods are more sweet to the taste
Than all the kisses that might leave me flummoxed.
I love to hear him play, yet well I know
He’s not as good as the Beatles or the Police:
I grant I never saw Brad Pitt go,
My boyfriend, when he walks, trips over his feet:
And yet by heaven, I think him as fine
As any model from Calvin Klein.
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