Runaround Sue Time Travels to 1559

Sorrowful, I lament while yet I can,
the hour I kissed her first on dance hall bench—
the laughing, flirting, cocktail-sipping wench
Suzanne, who stole my loyal heart, then ran

the streets of this corrupt and vicious town
to her eternal shame, with other men,
bestowing favors meant for me on ten
or twenty peasant rogues and rural clowns.

How could she trade my pledged and ardent love
For backseat grappling or a doorway kiss?
My fierce and fervent only wish is this:
To look on purgatory from above

while Suzanne howls in pain. Her only goal,
To let the cleansing fire restore her soul.

by Patrick Cook

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Patrick Cook used to work for the post office. Nothing so glamorous as carrying mail or serving customers at the window. No, he drove the forklift on the loading dock, emptied elevators, sorted letter trays. The mundane nature of the work is what inspired him to write poetry. It's the same instinct that drives a prisoner to cultivate a flower. Of course, parodies are a fairly low form of poetry, but who cares?