Charles (pronounced “Sharles”) and his girlfriend Yvette
were lovers of each other with a literary bent.
They wanted to be writers, and thus weren’t content;
they looked forward to looking back with regret.
The would-be scribblers looked to pick apart
each maudlin yearning of the other’s heart.
They could only afford a rented hovel
which each hoped to work into a breakthrough novel.
“The end is in the beginning,” foreshadowed Charles,
when he wrote of how their relationship was parlous.
“I’ve grim forebodings,” scribbled young Yvette,
“it’s just that they haven’t come true quite yet.”
They’d circle each other like two wary cats,
going ‘round and ‘round in their tiny flat.
Then they’d repair to their writing tables
to pound out as many words as they were able.
“I wish he would cheat, it would make things easy,”
She’d said to herself, if her stomach weren’t queasy.
“Perhaps she’ll leave me, that would do it,”
Charles thought before saying, “I certainly won’t rue it.”
“It will be so fine, so noble, so pure,
the aching will break my heart for sure.”
So Yvette thought as she packed Charles’ bag,
and said “What’s your hurry—I don’t mean to nag.”
Charles played his cards close to his down vest,
his critiques of her never took a rest.
“You never ask me what I want to do,
You don’t care about me—it’s all about you!”
The two fiendish plots eventually collided,
and the matter was once and for all decided:
things got out of hand, they were mutual wrecks
when they argued and gave in to hot make-up sex.
Moral: Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can regret today.