​On a line from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 81:
"When all the breathers of the world are dead…"
                                

After love, she gets a stuffy nose.
Is she alone in this
or are there others? What to choose?
Deprive herself of bliss

and freely breathe, or proceed
and nearly smother?
Oh, skip it. There is no free
lunch. No free pleasure

either. She would behave
more chastely if the danger
of mortality were grave
for her or for her lover.

But, really, the risk is slight.
She’ll live with it. Good night!