“Yea, from the table of my memory
I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past
That youth and observation copied there,
And thy lovely heart all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmixed with baser matter.”
(adapted from Hamlet)

Even cynical minds can appreciate the value of a love poem. Especially if it was borrowed from a meditation on revenge. Pleasure can come from everywhere, even pain, like the too tight pinch of a ripe purple nipple, or the wearing of jeans when short skirts are not an option.