The Bard of Antrim (Craphole of Ireland.)

Dear Belle,

Dear Belle, Dear Belle, my feet doth smell
My ginger hair is a sight as well 
If I've got skills, you'd never tell
But friends all call me Murphy.

I write, dear sight, 'bout my overbite
And the terrible gas that I get when tight
But except for the hangover it'll be alright 
I can offer you that assurity.

Dear Sweet old lass, let me not sound crass
As I tell you my feelings and make a pass 
T'would not go amiss if I grabbed yer ass
Or a chair -- if its in the vicinity.

For its true, yes true, I have fallen for you
And there's nary a thing that aye wouldn't do
To have your loov, or a loovely screw
Oh dear please don't accuse me of perfidy.

I'll be taking my leave, and this note I believe
Will express what is making my chest thick as eaves
If you cannot reciprocate, then I will grieve 
But I'm certain you'll find me worthy.

The Bard of Antrim (Craphole of Ireland.)

Dear Craphole Bard,
Ye've a face that frightens the bitty bairns
An odor that empties a crowded room
Yer father was a Molly McGuire
Yer ma whored by light of moon

No doubt I'd find you attractive
Like a compass that always points north
You remind me of my third husband, Dear
And also of my fourth

But both are buried 'neath the ground
They are dead and as dead can e'er be
T'was not a bullet that killed them, no!
They died for the love of me.

I'm afraid, my dear, I'm the kind of girl
Whose soul is quite dark and black
And once you've had a taste of Belle
You never can go back

Auntie Belle

PS Find someone less experienced; I'd kill you for sure. Next:
Categorical Denial in Saskatoon