I scanned two lines with some surmise
As over Keats I chanced to pore:
‘And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.’
Says I: ‘Why was it only four,
Not five or six or seven?
I think I would have made it more,–
Even eleven.
‘Gee! If she’d lured a guy like me
Into her gelid grot
I’d make that Belle Dame sans Merci
Sure kiss a lot.
‘Them poets have their little tricks;
I think John counted kisses for,
Not two or three or five or six
To rhyme with “sore.”‘
