The Heat Of Passion

She loved me for my garlic tongue
When I was twenty-nine -
My kisses lingered on her breath,
My tastebuds were no shibboleth,
Her Lady played to my Macbeth,
She clove to me like sudden death
And claimed her mouth as mine.

Alas for love, which will not last
On herbal heat alone -
She left me, and my later wives,
Who vowed to me entire lives,
Were horrified. Not one survives:
Not one could even cope with chives
Upon the telephone.

From Rime Present