The Rut

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A morning chill, the scent is in the air.
The males all lift their heads w’ nostrils flared.

It is the season poets congregate
In open fields to meet and take a mate.

In joining pen w’ pen to no more roam,
To propagate in pairs and make a poem.

The strongest bucks of verse will be a catch
That poet doe’s of equal skill can fetch.

All through the spring the ink of love fulfills,
To flow through veins of passion, creeks & rills.

The poet bucks who lost are feeling hurt:
“I came to write and got a lousy shirt!”

There’s one who’s limping still w’ bloody face.
He looks around to see who’s left to chase,

And bellows loudly at the female strays,
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways!”