Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Out of practice
A silly man of wit infirm
Believes I'll go to hell
If I admire the lovely form
Of a tall dark demoiselle.
Sweet lady, do not chide me for my gaze:
Your gestures and your looks simply amaze!
Her feet were made of Jesus, and her voice
Could make the cold stones tremble and rejoice.
How do I love you? Well, if truth be told,
I'd gladly kiss you till we both grow old.
My love's no fever, but a clear fresh spring
Sustaining me through all my wandering.
Yes, Dante's Beatrice would bend the knee
Before my sovereign lady's majesty.
These April blossoms seem so weak
Compared to my love's sun-kissed cheek.
This woman on the bus -- young, dark, and slender --
Outshines the summer sun in her fierce splendour.
If any man is not profoundly pleased
By her bright smile, well, then, his heart's diseased!
O pious soul, so proper and so rigid,
How did your blood become so tame and frigid?
Very few poets' rhymes can quite compare
To the proud song of her unstraightened hair.
The tuneful songbirds and the rumbling trucks
Signal the sun will soon come up -- aw, shucks!