Too many barmaids have been forgotten
by the passage of time, despite the lies
said to them by crowds of spitting poets:
"Oh Lydia, I sigh at your huge breast. . ."

"Oh woman, oh maiden, be my lover;
forget those promises to your hope chest,
and fulfill the desire in my bones. . .
I'll preserve you forever in my poem.

"I'll mention your teeth, they look fine to me.
Your smile is gapped, but I'll say its divine,
'though when we're coupled its not you I see:
Its your cousin Marie of whom I dream.

"So swoon, my dear, at the sound of my voice,
for with my words you will live forever—
Carpe diem is my philosophy,
a start for your stay in the nunnery."

And when Lydia was dismayed and gone,
a new flower needed to be undone:
quickly the poets rewrite the trite lies—
"Marie, I long to touch your inner thigh. . ."

Too many barmaids have been forgotten.