Love's Detective

They always called her Love's detective,
Thought her inopportune, but harmless.
She looked at life without perspective,
A dry soul, erudite and charmless.

She had a habit of appearing
Just when four lips were ripe for kissing.
“Excuse me if I'm interfering.”
The mild words sounded like a hissing.

And when at last the bomb exploded
Which rent love like a wind-blown thistle,
They never knew that she had loaded,
And primed, and aimed, and fired the missile.
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