You keep switching
from Connery to Lazenby
to Craig, whereas I have been
Pierce, all through
all the way, and I can't help
finding your flighty escapes
are not quite redeemed
by these horrible puns
you make.
Meanwhile, in Bucharest
You are not impressed
by my cool and implacable
charm, and keep calling me
"Remington Steele"
It's clear that we have no
Bond
between us at all
to unite
how we think and feel,
and redeem us from harm,
or from disbelief.
So it's just action scenes
and explosions, I guess. Tawdry
and rote as if choreographed
seductions and yes, oh, "yes
James," yes - those quips, which
you drop like bombs.
Which never do quite go off,
except, unless
in the sense
that your laugh
turns them all to aplomb,
and I'm blown
through the glass, to land
in a swoon,
on a gigantic swan.
Q division
has a strange sense of whimsy,
in some of these trips
we've been on.
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