The love of a man’s a delicate thing
Built of earthquakes
And thunder.
His pat is a bear paw
His kiss is a curse
His squeeze would burst
Granite asunder.
If all of his wooing
Were witnessed from off
And his jousts in life’s list assembled
You’d think the debris
In his emphatic wake
The shambles of warfare resembled.
His woman she nags or
Spoils feast day with tears
And offers her softness
to blisters
While he buys her
New baubles
Which no one can use
And scars her fair hide up
With whiskers.
The love of a man is a delicate thing
For the granite’s but papier mache
His lady, she dodges
And won’t comprehend
That a soft love in man goes away!


May 21 1945, Oakland, California






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