Читать книгу #Sonnets - Lucien Young - Страница 33

I have thy number, but know not thy heart,

Thus I resolve a flirty text to send.

Should I put ‘hey’ or ‘what’s up’ at the start?

A kiss or sly emoji at the end?

Alas, each text seems trite and poorly phrased,

Naught but the trifle of a dullard’s hand;

No sooner are they written than erased,

As though I write my lines upon the sand.

Some twenty efforts later, I despair

And at the iPhone’s empty screen I blink,

When suddenly my muse doth heed my prayer

And I these words peck out: ‘Fancy a drink?’

Then, thinking that this draft cannot be bettered,

I send the text, and instantly regret it.