Loss of Lover

A tragedy that might have been imposed

On me would be if I were born to speak

In French. In that case I would be exposed

To meanings and I’d hear how bland and weak

Its words are. That would be disaster of

The first degree for then I’d have to know

The sense of it. French wouldn’t sound like love

And sex. No longer would it be a beau

Enticing me to raunchiness, romance

And French perfume made up of sweat and kiss.

Instead it would reveal some circumstance

(A shopping list?) in lieu of fevered bliss.

The throatiness and suavity would be

Transformed to stuff like pissoirs for a pee.