A ballet of branches upon towering trees,
reaching (ever so) tall, above his head:
are mirroring his thoughts with ease
on this (ever so) dastardly dreary day.

"Oh, Creator! Come strike me dead!
I am ever so afraid, of what I wish to say:
t'whom the woman I dream of before
- and after I lie and wake in bed."

To be rejected by his dream queen
is, surely, his soul's damnation!

"Maybe-deep in my dungeon, I should stay
and get ever so high in euphoric elation-
yes! dragons in my kitchen, I should slay!
God! Do I wish to see her face?!"(Yes!)

It may be his last chance to be blessed-
by all of the beauty that she beholds:
within her body, brain and being.
He's feeling fairly stressed
because he doesn't fit most social molds-
but his wish: her and he,
t'wards the western sun, fleeing.

He's going to grab the rope of his dream
(Yes!)
and, to her, it won't seem- like much;
(No!)
what she can't see, is the rush-ed blood,
(Oh!)
so warm, circulating amidst his heart.

Oh, how this could be the start-
of a drastic change in outlook- view!

If only he had the nuts, to ask out you!