She placed herself online:
"I've got myself a mentor,
but need to be a loved slave."

His wit
had the charm
of yap,
hence:

"Oh wow! I haven't had a decent fight
for years. But let's not fight with brutal might,
the Net denies the real, and virtual war
is bland. Let's fight with brutal words, the core
of words, in poetry, with lines of verse
in sonnet form. I challenge you, disperse
the crude, excite your skills, be rude with charm,
not teenage curse nor childish snap, but calm
and contemplative bile. The victor gets
the girl. The loser knows a fight well met,
and lost, is no disgrace. And if there's fire,
if what we write has power, we'll burn the pyre
of formulaic prejudice, their hell
of puritan ideal. We'll be the fell."

The wimp,
he run away.

How can he,
supposed to be of Write,
be so pen weak?

How can she be of worth,
when he's of none?

I let them be.

This poem was published in the Autumn 2K2 edition of Subverse.