Being Emily

She stomped on my ground
To furrow my heart,
This girl Emily.
Far and far away
With cinnamon hair
And glorious eyes,
She wrote tasty poems
For me and my kind.

Being Emily, however,
Was a curse.
Her husband was a wild-eyed puncher
Who pulled her around by her cinnamon hair,
Pretending to choke her
For the least infraction.
It burns me to distraction:
For Emily is my girl.

poem by Stan Petrovich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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