Peacock feathers, royal blue,
Turquoise, lapis, every hue,
Only gemstones and most true,
For him naught but best will do.
He deserves a golden shrine,
From his eyes the stars do shine,
If his hand I'd touch with mine,
I'd have drunk Narcissus' wine.
Hair like midnight, skin like satin,
Waistline food would dare not fatten,
Curl of lip and drape of cloak,
Voice like diamond, glitt'ring smoke.
Stood before him, maidens weep,
Princesses his floors do sweep,
If there's one he deigns to keep,
To his side, she'd always leap.
He is perfect, this all known,
For he often tells them so,
Argue at your own life's risk,
His vengeance is assured, not brisk.