Intellectual Property is owned by JK Rowling

A Teachers' Lounge challenge to write Snapoetry which is emo poetry. I fail because Snape's too logical and too acidic to be emo. Sorry.
I'm going to play to my strengths. I write bad poetry. I write bad poetry spectacularly well.
"Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!"

Why My Hair Is Greasy

Severus sat at the back of History of Magic and looked out of the window towards the Lake. He had read four chapters ahead already and still had some time to kill. It was Valentine's Day tomorrow. He wanted to write a poem for Lily, but all his previous efforts had been – well – frankly – stinkers.

It really wasn't his turn of mind; he prided himself on being a logician. But logically, he should be able to trot out a decent poem, surely, if he followed the structure and the rules and tinted it with his own undeniable feelings for Lily.

He sighed enormously as he re-read his latest effort. He knew real poetry - proper grown-up Muggle poetry - did not rhyme. Non-rhyming poetry didn't make sense to Snape. It had no structure. If it didn't rhyme, it was prose, surely?

/

I run my fingers through my hair
Wishing I was no longer here
But with my maiden fair
Under that tree, over there.

My maiden's Titian tresses
Frame her wondrous beauty
My heart's own jesses
Are tied to her like duty.

My maiden's eyes hold me in her thrall
Those eyes of purest emerald
One look from them is my downfall
Heartsease which they do herald

For you shall be my heart's desire
Until you return my devotion
With equal flame and fire
That causes in me such commotion

Black shall be my outer garb
Until your passion to me impart
Your sweet kiss that withdraws the barb
That perpetually stings my heart.

/

Severus re-read his poem and his lips became thinner still. Bugger.

Tergeo

He siphoned the words away.

Clearly, he could only ensnare the senses with his potions.

Haaaang on a sec. That sounded good. He began to scribble on his cleaned parchment.

"Ensnare the senses." That's good. What else?

He scratched away, with the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he summoned to his mind how he felt about potions.

"Bewitch the mind," – ooo, that's good too.

On a roll, he made a vow to himself. He simply would not wash his hair until the poem was written and he had won the maiden.

FIN