A May-December fling, how far, how long?
Not the least of love, but a sin sublime
For those who trade love, for a song!
We made ours, to outlast, world’s paradigm!
It never was a puppy love, oh, goodness gracious me!
A bloke of fifteen, dame of forty, and a chasm of infamy
My ‘chou-chou’, is why, two years shy, of my eldest child!
How I awe myself, a mother of three, with such a liaison wild!
Daresay I, who won over, a granny of seven
That smitten boy, who wedded me, and my vain womb
Or this man of will, world waited for, amen!
How love made him, what all he is, a leader of aplomb!
Who choose to call love, destiny, don’t know, it’s toil of heart
How could ages be anything, but moments, lived up to?
And love, a farce of sacraments, which paradigms impart!
If you want it worth, to swear into, Do Love Like The French Do!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra