a young gal' her hair gold, bold
and wavy like a sea torn aimlessly
out on the Porch sits a foretold
amore on swings that sway savorily

painfully graceful eyes adore men daunting
talent absent thought,
taught only by angels wings
In carriage cradles that weigh like the sound of harp strings

too all that see it are amazed,
envious and crazed
but no matter the practice
it's hilariously not the same

so praised eyes fight to become what amuses to tell,
"for who gets immortalized, the artist or the muse?"

suddenly jealous thoughts alarm interest
in overzealous pattern while his ideas
although discussed in taverns
over pints of beer, and men speaking of long legs that remind them of first kissed thighs;
she stands alone as his most prized obsession

"inspiration doesn't come within"
when throughout the world
only few will see what shallow consideration comes from 'she'

with great arousal starts to fancy
and still 'she' sits there happy