She was a wild woman and I gave her
a bouquet of Tasmanian devils --
cartoon flowers in a spin of evils,
long stem, and smelly -- not a trace of myrrh --
and she saw them for what they were -- tokens
of my desire. Dionysian fireflies
danced outside our tent. No one heard our cries
as we caterwauled like theologians.
In the morning we saw we forgot
the granola and had ourselves a spat.
She called me an imbecile and limp prat.
I reminded her that she broke the cot.
The Tassie devil fleur de mal were rank.
And to tell the truth I deserved the spank.
