Through a mile of swamp, did he wade
And all his pants were denim and suede,
And beneath his pile of dirty linen,
Marred with stains of hearty sinnin’
The muffled wails of a life gone whoosh,
Till the day he laid his eyes on Noosh.
Her want so pure, it turned sunbeams to dust,
Care a frog, for such proclivities as lust.
His yearning so died, sullied with words,
Drunken breath better wasted on other birds.
Her want was simple, a silent longing to swoon,
Not for his lips, would that he could just spoon.
4 comments:
Make up your mind if you want to be a knight-at-arms or a wandering bard. Riding a horse or singing? Pick.
Knight any day woman! But why do I have to choose? :)
Bard, bard!
But horses are so much cooler!
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