Cleav'd.

Betwixt fain and ruth, she'd getup and sip,
the vintage, you always wish one achieves;
prithee overrules sentiment, whilst now she,
sponges her face across my unclean sleeves.

Now that I, hang the polo neck out to dry,
I longingly stare, wooded in reminiscence;
to describe would take loquacious scripts,
and collars that straighten with eloquence.

This worn-out ruse seems like an era aroint,
along with expression, which seldom matters.
For prudence can make wry argument strife,
in ribbons my shirt, an amour in tatters...