In ancient Rome during middle February they feasted quite deeply during pagan Lupercalia. To slit the throats of a dog and a goat then eat them would cure what ailed ya.

Then ladies’d stand naked in line, and while blitzed on wine the fellas all’d hit them.

Later on ladies’ names were drawn by men in a game to determine who later would schtup ’em.

Couples might bond, other times not gel, in either case they’d end up sticky.

While rollicking and violent, horrid and wrong, somehow that all ended as this edible Mickey.

The Valentine’s cookie was sweet, decorated neat, and blended to smooth consistency.

Eating it made me sluggish and slow, hardly rarin’ to go, and in the wild my rivals would pass me.

Would I end up behind down the Lupercalian line slapping laggard asses that didn’t quite suit me?

I’d probably stay back, plan a selective attack based on hair, guessed-at smarts, self-esteem.

Or would I have thought “Sod it all. Ave, Venus!” and hope my card would lead to love at first sight?

All this mulling now and then while with a ravenous grin I chomped down on this corporate copyright.