The Fisherman

He's more dangerous than most; With him, your heart's already toast, For he knows, just how women think; He writes his poems, to capture hearts, Which he enclose, with careful art: Your heart around his own, in knots He sees the tears, hears each sigh, Knows soon enough that you've been caught. He knows all your armor chinks, And with his pen, he makes a hole Looks straight in, with his flashlight And then, he just reels in your soul. He writes too many love poems But they're his stock and trade; It's much too late to worry now, Your bed's already made.