Love Is

A poem beginning with: O my love is…

O my love is like a dry, red wine

That’s piquant, sharp and tart,

A lass, alas, who rarely warms

The cockles of my heart.

As dear she is, my stroppy spouse,

There’s something gone amiss,

However ardently I plead,

Ne’er cuddle we, nor kiss.

Yet love her still I always shall,

Till all the wine runs dry,

Till all that’s left to drink is dregs

To love her still I’ll try.

Of loving her I’ll never tire.

Though me she loathes and spurns

I’ll prove my love runs just as deep

As once ran Rabbie Burns’.