For yesterday, the Pooky’s Poems prompt called for one to describe love to a child. Haul out your handkerchiefs and be prepared for a mushy, sickly-sentimental exposition …
What is love? Well, let us see, now:
You are standing in a court,
But your mind cannot agree how
This-here battle should be fought.
Then a ball comes whizzing at you,
But, regrettably, your swing
Did not mean, in slightest, that you
Had connected with the thing,
Fifteen love, you try again to
Slash at that elusive ball;
Hitting it, it is a pain to –
‘Thirty love!’ you hear Ref call.
And the next is really vicious,
For it strikes you on the head;
Other side finds this delicious,
But you wish that you were dead.
And the Ref’s love is now forty;
Yet again, the ball comes through
From a serve so really naughty
That you miss it this time, too.
Now your service; but you net them
All of eight times in a row;
Love-fifteen to -forty get them –
Game comes with the last no-show.
Next game, last of a one-setter,
Goes exactly like the first;
Accuracy gets no better,
And result is still the worst.
Therefore love has nothing for you,
Dear, I think I’ve made it clear
That if love is what you score, you
May be sure it costs you dear.