The Poet-man Always Rings Twice

The simile on her lips
was like a ray of sunburn.
The metaphor she gave me
was a loaded potato gun.
She exaggerated her litotes
and her hyperbole was understated:
this femme was fatal-ly alliterated,
I had no illusions about her allusions
and didn't care for her internal rhyme.
She was shooting me a line
break, but I had her measure.