139: A poem fires up photoshop. Excuse me.

A poem is a picture as love well knows.

That your cunning lays upon my heart...

Drowns me out, my kitten, dear heart, but don’t wound me, not

this time, and never call me back to justify what’s wrong.
Your good looks attract my enemies — it’s your eyes
but glances aside — you overpower with your unkind tongue

to kill me outright, and not by art. So I’m defenseless.

Also I’ve saved your robocalls to prove it.

I’m not kidding. No more calls, no pictures, please.