Oft I Think My True Love Doth Speak Too Much

Oft I think my true love doth speak too much,
Telling the affairs of other ladies,
Prating over daily gossip and such,
Demanding attention like a baby.
In truth, her presence affords me no peace,
A woman’s needs are like those of a child,
Their demands for petting never do cease,
And oft do dames roar when they ought be mild.
Like all women my love does spit venom,
Her taste runs to lace and gold, or fine silk,
Where my wallet suggests only denim,
A common trend among the female ilk.
Still I’d trade her for no price or treasure,
For no daughter yet born is her measure.