Brendon Urie

Exhuberance, legitimacy to the word

that is what he is

He is my lord

it is you Brendon Urie who I adore

your voice like a songbird

Echoing through my mind as I imagine his perfectly chiseled features

He is sitting in a rose garden 

Dressed in a crimson suit 

Hair slicked back, hands on a white piano

I wish I was the piano

In his hands, under his care

musical craft is his niche

and all I can do 

Is sit here bewitched

 

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