EVE loved her Paul McCartney pencil cup!
Which she lapped up, though her housemate
were less than amused. She understood him to
be confused, and what with his temper and all
she might laugh with him, but she would never
LAUGH ADAM, tweak his ribs or blow his fuse.
Nor fail to answer his call, nor time corrupt,
His mind would get too bruised. The garden of EDEN
were once the garden of Sweden, before the SW
broke off to license itself, lucratively,
to be used, as the symbol for SOUTH WEST.
And EAR leases it to SWEAR, and to lessen
the insanity on what it hears, and those moods it has to wear.
Resigned, Eve did what she does best, turn herself into night.
Others call it Evening, though for her that would
prove too slight (as well as too vain). It haunts her enough
that it rhymes with leaving. And she encourages
her man to write pop songs, to remove the rust from his
mental chains (that are otherwise too loud and cleaving),
as she clears the static dust, gathered like flakes
upon her window pane, while the moon is
gently sleeping, in twilights' golden cusp.

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