True Love

I bought my love a violin for Christmas.
She sold it
in the market
for a pittance.

She said that
she preferred pyjamas.
The f-holes
made her think
of dried vaginas.

I bought my love
a pair of homing pigeons.
They got casseroled
with rosemary and onions.

Their cooing
stooped her sleeping
she explained.

I procured
a set of ear-rings
from a spieler
down in Mile End.

They were beautifully made
like the shells
of tiny snails.

I saw them later
in the window
of a money lender.

My love informed me
she had an allergy
that only the finest gold
could cure.