Dear Sirs: here are your letters I've returned.
All you, to me, appear like parrots trained
For all you squawk are shallow lines you'd learned
And fill the air with second-hand refrains.
Think, please, of something other than the sun
Or summer's day, or rose and coral red
(Or flea, if you have so become undone)
As similes to draw me to your bed.
But take some risk and let honesty fly;
Declare to me those faults I do possess:
My dagger tongue, and my sarcastic sighs,
My too long and steadfast stubbornness.
Then profess these not faults, but all my charms,
Then might you find me, loves, within your arms.
Mary Elzabeth Lee
