Pinch.

Courtesy her, this love with careless amour,
my enamor, and before I know, I'd stammer.
But stammer she allows, for I don't pretend,
whether ineligibly written or hard to comprehend.
Now she'd make a face, but I'll beat her to it,
unsympathetic and an untied shoe lace.
Wherein, what I can't disallow, somebody might;
slips, trips, cuts her lip, horribly impolite.
Hesitant, I unpack, leaving aside what she won't like;
and its in frames like these, that we thing alike.
For all that was, was run awash, stays bare in viewing;
it now swims in sand, and quickly dies in ruin.
Let me now, not fold and repack all in revelry,
that includes you, me, and these 14 lines of poetry.