Braised

You touch her hair, I wish it was me. No chance, at best, I imagine a three. Then who gets the meat? And who gets the veg? I can feel the heartburn, as I starve on the dregs. She's too good for you; my blinkers they fell, give it ten more days, the ego will quell. But now I hang, as spikey gooseberry, perplexed why onearth he'd choose to lose me. She's a good 'un; ample; a clever charm, Picture painted green-eyed-storm turns sudden calm. And I shouldn't feel discontent at this new affair, I just wish, once more, he might touch my hair.