One of the great, a man of the faith.
But so uncouth, the twisted slate.
Donning his robe, that Donne of faith.
But “fun in bed” was his true debate.
Therefore, I call out thy hypocritical name.
“John Donne, you were a pervert!” I greatly refrain.
“Your time was spent writing of naked girls.
Not that I’m a saint, but at least I’m a tad more obscure!”
I retch and writhe and offer pained moans.
His silent grave mocks my sullen tone.
But secretly despite his lust.
Beneath an empirical and stern-faced crust.
I softly and emotionally whisper…
The most silent words, with a hint of blister…
I firmly think within, praising disaster:
“You’re a damned lucky bastard.”