She would find rubies by the Ganges
And he sat waiting out Humber tide.
Love grew moon type turnip flower.
The flowers would wilt by fierce sun
In the desert of vast eternity, before
The worms would get their virginity.
Virginity flower failing to turn fruit,
A vegetable love may grow empires,
But there are worms waiting to feed.
(About the hyperbolic poem “To his coy mistress” by Andrew Marvel)