To His Coy Mistress v.7813

 Are you, my love, too good for me?

Too beautiful for me to see?

Too wise and kind to run away

to even spend just half a day

in my unvarnished company?

I’m writing this on bended knee;

I’m utilising poetry

to spell out what I cannot say:

“Are you my love?”

I know that you will hear my plea

and laugh that you’re fine burgundy

while I’m an Asda Beaujolais. 

I’m E.L. James, you’re Hemingway

and, though I laugh, I’m not happy.

Are you, my love?