Lucy, when thou art at your most fine,
You rush away at ten to nine
Bubbling baths of salts and wine,
Can’t be more tempting than the line
Which thou dost blurt out so divine
Leaving us for you to pine.

What lover awaits in the dead of night,
With palms unread for he keeps them tight
Art thou afeared you’ll cause a plight
And make him vanish from your sight?
Our ten minutes ache when your Zoom takes flight
As our once wise poems lose their might.