/lit/ - Literature

My write-something-every-day-even-if-it-means-resorting-to-rhyming-poetry poem:

My sweetstock sings of heaven,
My sweetstock has grey eyes.
She walks the roads alone at night
And I've never seen her cry

Her boots are leather relics
From an uncle now in jail.
He killed his darling wife, it's said,
But that's another tale.

Oh sweetstock, how I hate it,
When you climb up to the roof,
And chalk you theorems on the tiles
And contemplate your proofs.

It's hard to live with you, my love,
In our hurricane of gloom.
But I love your yarns of feral cats
With empires on the moon.

So I stew the supper cabbage,
And I fix the ladder you broke.
I felt you saw the ghost in me,
the last time that we spoke.