I wrote this poem today for my wife. It's instead of flowers. So, yeah, pray for me!
Saint Valentine's Day
On this most blessed day, the candy sellers are the winners.
The scandal of a saint's day reimagined by the sinners.
The cards will fly, the lovers gorge, the florists will deliver.
Any everyone will hope to catch a dart from Cupid's quiver.
No fasting nor remembrance for you, dear St. Valentine,
But gluttony and avarice, and chocolate and wine.
If each day in the kalendar were stolen thus away,
We'd gobble gobs of Swedish fish upon St. Peter's day,
Or else each pair of lovers, driven on by high decrees,
Would have to exchange jewelry in the shape of golden keys.
On John the Baptist's Day, the silver chargers would accrue.
We'd swallow candy flaying knives for St. Bartholomew.
To honor Theodosia, we would swarm the beach with glee,
And gaily in her honor cast ourselves into the sea.
For Latimer and Ridley and Archbishop Cranmer's sake,
We Anglican romantics could burn hot dogs at the stake,
And just to wet our whistles as we watched the pretty flame,
Sip rich Ugandan coffee for the martyrs of the same.
The pagan in his revelry will never be contented
Until each fast becomes a feast, and all the year's unLented.
But as of now, be thankful that they scarcely have begun,
And of the days of martyrs have perverted only one.
For us who would remember of each martyrdom the price,
A lowered head, a silence, and a Collect may suffice.
© 2012, Paul Erlandson
Saint Valentine's Day
On this most blessed day, the candy sellers are the winners.
The scandal of a saint's day reimagined by the sinners.
The cards will fly, the lovers gorge, the florists will deliver.
Any everyone will hope to catch a dart from Cupid's quiver.
No fasting nor remembrance for you, dear St. Valentine,
But gluttony and avarice, and chocolate and wine.
If each day in the kalendar were stolen thus away,
We'd gobble gobs of Swedish fish upon St. Peter's day,
Or else each pair of lovers, driven on by high decrees,
Would have to exchange jewelry in the shape of golden keys.
On John the Baptist's Day, the silver chargers would accrue.
We'd swallow candy flaying knives for St. Bartholomew.
To honor Theodosia, we would swarm the beach with glee,
And gaily in her honor cast ourselves into the sea.
For Latimer and Ridley and Archbishop Cranmer's sake,
We Anglican romantics could burn hot dogs at the stake,
And just to wet our whistles as we watched the pretty flame,
Sip rich Ugandan coffee for the martyrs of the same.
The pagan in his revelry will never be contented
Until each fast becomes a feast, and all the year's unLented.
But as of now, be thankful that they scarcely have begun,
And of the days of martyrs have perverted only one.
For us who would remember of each martyrdom the price,
A lowered head, a silence, and a Collect may suffice.
© 2012, Paul Erlandson
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