The Romantics

In spite of all the pretty words that make your knees go weak,
And similes about your eyes and oceans, stars or jewels,
Remember, as that ruby blush brings blossoms to your cheek,
The poet doesn’t mean those things, my love, they’re only tools.
The poet is a sneaky sort who serenades the page,
To shape its pale virginity into his lover’s form,
And once begun, his pen is not about to disengage
From frenzied strokes of passion in his literary storm.
This flaccid nerd by words becomes your troubadourish knight,
His girth recedes, his hair grows thick, he’s dash and derring-do,
And you, his gentle sonnet queen, have spurred his soul to write
Of what he’d do if only he weren’t terrified of you.
In fairyland built high upon the strata of cliché
The poet spins his lyric lies to you, his chosen lay.