The Troubadour
The Troubadour
The scent of musk permeates the air,
And I, like a troubadour, leap for it there.
To dizzyingly heights and then alight
In a euphoric high filled with pride.
To greet my sweet’s fluttering peeps
That prick my pupils and blush my cheeks.
Then I breathe deep to exercise my vocals
While she dawdles away, charmed by the minstrel.
Like a peacock in bloom, I fan my feathers
And flap my wings in a dazzling repertoire.
And she, a princess of beauty and grace,
Acknowledges my advances without haste.
Boldly encouraged and flagrantly absurd,
I make promises I’ll regret afterwards,
But she is worth every ounce of expenditure
I put forth and more if she so desires.
***
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