(after Horace Ode 1.33 Albi, ne doleas)
Forget it, Phil, just ditch the fiery redhead.
Stop writing endless poems to dear sweet Ann.
Her sort are all the same: they let you down,
her new bloke’s not good-looking, but he’s strong.
I tell you, lad, all this, it’s just a game.
You must remember Ricky, how he worshipped
Bella’s form and how he hung on every word.
But Dave was in her sonnets and her bed.
Remember how we said ‘it’ll end in tears,
Bella’s going to get what’s coming, that’s for sure’.
We knew back then how love hurts and how Venus
throws most unlikely pairs into the sack.
And surely you remember my fiasco
how I chose a so-called hero who was strong
enough to give me space and let me breathe,
yet decided night and day and tied my tongue.