it's just a poem k
While some loves never, never end,
some others never start.
When asked which lass he yearned for most,
from whom he’d scarce depart:
“La Tour Eiffel,” the young man sighed,
his hand pressed to his heart.
“Her curves, her strength, her luscious shine,
The object of my love.”
“I won’t object,” the tower said,
voice falling from above.
She boomed as forceful as a jet,
but gentle as a dove.
For days and nights and nights and days,
the man pined for the tower.
With chocolates, roses, metal paint,
Presented every hour.
“I don’t object,” the tower said,
but seemed a little dour.
He came to know her every bar,
Her ‘body’ more than his.
He’d creep upon her spire and hum,
“I beg your pardon, Ms.”
“I shan’t object,” she consoled him,
unsure what pardon is.
His thoughts did take a darker turn:
A Tower in moonlight.
Each brush became a hot caress,
Rubbed all along her height.
“I can’t object,” the Tower breathed,
and learned something of ‘fright’.
His smile no longer lit her floors,
His teeth spoke something dark.
He strutted ‘round her latticed wings,
and left more than one mark.
“I might object,” she all but squeaked,
To her, he did not hark.
He took to sleeping in her legs,
She keened but could not cry.
“I must object,” she told herself;
no need to question why.
She upward-turned her metal face
and dreamt of empty sky.
“Object, object, and run away,”
the deep blue whispered back.
The tower shook, and took a look,
And heaved her legs, and
crack.Her freedom called, she won’t be stopped;
the young man’s heart turned black.
He chased the tower through Paris,
and down into the sea.
“Why do you run?” he trilled through tears.
“Are we to never be?”
The tower did not even turn;
she had one thought:
I’m free.And Paris blamed the U.S.A.,
Who promptly blamed Japan,
Who pointed fingers at Russia,
Who framed Afghanistan.
And war broke out, and bombs were dropped,
And on, the tower ran.
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