Heart Poem II

Here is some rhyming. For your rhyming pleasure.
I pronounce Leisure like “leh-juhr.”

A new Heart Poem below.

Your heart is Russian. Has an accent and a mustache.
Your heart is Robitussin. I pour it on my rash.

Your heart says Merry Christmas, Not Happy Holidays.
Your heart’s the movie Witness and The Last Crusade.

Your heart’s a crazy racist and a peeping tom.
Your heart uses phrases like “‘Fo Sho'” and “It’s da bomb.”

Your heart is Hollywood. In the ninteen-forties.
Your heart is from da hood. And says “Hey Shawty.”

Your heart’s Marilyn Monroe. You only *think* you know her.
Your heart speaks in slo mo. Like a stoned who-ore.

Your heart’s a sexy fox. I wanna getcher number.
Your heart’s a bagel with lox. And sliced cucumber.

Your heart says cliche phrases like: “It’s not you, it’s me.”
Your heart likes Alec Baldwin as Jack Donaghy.

Your heart is Diet soda. Bad in the long run.
Your heart’s Abe Vigoda. And dies in Godfather One.

Your heart’s like a bomb. Surrounded with red wire.
Your heart is a mom who calls you, “Wisenheimer.”

Your heart is brocolli. Not cauliflower.
Your heart likes saying things like, “SAVE the clock tower!”

Your heart’s a Thank You letter. It’s knows good etiquette.
Your heart’s the sentence I just wrote. Subject / predicate.

Your heart is anxiety. It really holds me back.
Your heart’s sobriety. What alcoholics lack.

Your heart is roasted beets. It makes my mouth red.
Your heart’s Lydia Deets. She speaks to the dead.

Your heart is like a sofa. Sit. Take a load off.
Your heart exclaims, “Tova!” and “Mozel Tov!”

Your heart’s a crystal gazer. It tells me bout my fate.
Your heart is human nature. You just have to wait.

Your heart is a mic check. On opening night.
Your heart says “What the heck?” and “Go fly a kite!”

Your heart likes going camping. And other gross things like that.
Your heart likes cake sampling. S’gonna get fat.

Your heart’s head over heels for Guy de Maupassant.
Your heart says “Tu dois finir!” and eats all the croissants.

Your heart likes hearing good news. If it had to pick.
Your heart’s really into barbecues. And cracks jokes like a dick.

Your heart is made of cheese. Rockford not brie.
Your heart says, “If you please, I really have to pee.”

Your heart is Good Housekeeping. It bores me half to death.
Your heart’s soft and receding. From all the crystal meth.

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