She Is Red, Instead Of Pink Poem by James McLain

I grew even pinker, with each
passing verb, she tossed and
slung at me.

They were bar bless, this crown
of thorns, upon her head she tried
to wear so well.
I bled, but I could not show the
harm,
flirting is so dangerous, exciting
In all honesty, never boring.

So pretty Misses, if the vines start
to bulge, and you turn red instead
of pink, stop and please try and
reconsider,
all the mail, returned to sender as
a tease, from all the males.