Malcolm Returns!!!

Through want of sense, I want to marry you,
Before we see too much of each other;
That love, born in secret, be ever new
As we always re-meet one another.
For who would guess that the fruit of love’s work
Is a union, not of two into one
But of two into three, Love’s childish quirk:
In between the two lovers, comes a son?
So given that nature aims to surprise
Who are we to pretend that we can know
Enough about loving to criticize
The little flaws a new lover may show?
Or perhaps you have deeper misgivings,
Than how I propose to make a living?

Bravo Malcolm!! A mere one day later, and you come back with a brilliant retort to my ill considered critical missive. How foolish of me to doubt the poetic credentials of so eminent a worthy as your very self. I am wrong, you are right.
Now, to be serious for a moment, and this is for your own good: this poem is not funny. What is much worse, it is a blight on the good name of our religion. Imagine a Christian in good standing wanting to marry a girl before he (A) Knew much about her and (B) Had any money or prospects.
I can only imagine that you have that peculiar sickness called being "in love", the chief symptom of which is a disregard for practical matters in favor of daydreaming about roses or angels or whatever you have found to compare your fair lady to. You might even begin to think that you have been "called" by God to love her, despite the cruel world that wants to keep you apart. I can only advise you to run, as fast as your flat poet's feet can carry you. The woman is right about you, you are flawed, and deeply. You see, good sir, despite your meagre talent, you have been called to be not a husband, but a poet.
"But what of all the married poets?" I can hear you pathetically whimpering. You, sir, are not man enough to lick their shoes. Pick one or the other: books or babies. Nothing is more at odds than verse and diapers.