It’s another near-notch
upon the bedpost height,
stolen from the pen
and passion of another:

And her eyes of sapphire
are worth every karat,
every single sigh
and engraving from you to her.

A harpsichord in moonlight,
that couldn‘t match her face,
and stars put there for ambience
that couldn‘t meet her gaze.

A thousand sun rejections
couldn’t take away her breath,
nor the stare of puppy dogs
still drowning in the rain.

Her ticket’s to the opera,
because she’s a sensitive soul,

A string quartet of experts
can put her in the mood,
to slip a couple roses
and a chocolate by her nose.

Love is just a game,
and when it‘s your turn to roll,
someone upturns the board,
and starts another round.

Off you go to make
some children in the corn,
as corny as a poem
in the excerpt of a card.