The Face
The day’s wearing labors reluctantly close
And the stars of the night slowly emerge,
It’s my plan to dine and then anon recline
But then starts this unending mental scourge.
This anonymous dame overseas has stolen my heart.
How I find myself punching her line after line I wonder,
Could she be merely exciting me for her fun and then claim
That the past joinings of God no man should put asunder?
I ignore the dissolute image of her adorable face
And elevate my sleepy thoughts to loftier ideals:
How I might one day write like Bernard Shaw
Or how being the commander-in-chief exactly feels.
But then I do not go far with my fanciful thoughts
Before my drowsy wandering mind is swept bare,
And the face of that unceasing dame obliterates
All the far-fetched castles I had built in the air.
My attempts to disregard her appearance are all in vain
And the more I dodge that face the more it stirs my pain,
Her eyes lock into mine and our arms involuntarily embrace
As I consider what to do about this ever-appearing face.
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