Roses are red, violets are blue,
love left unsaid, is much more true,
than lies lips lay, on yearning ears,
for words delay, love's yonder years,
from taking place, upon our plates,
in feast of grace, and Tantric traits.
The center piece, of table tall,
a red rose wreath, that blooms in fall,
for in summer, amidst sun's tryst,
vintage vesture, would be amiss.
Amongst fed flames, and wilting wax,
its beauty tames, the burned boar's racks,
from stretching thin, the table's cloth,
placating then, what wrath has wrought.
Round the setting, span bands of birch,
guitars fretting, torn tunes in search,
of feathered feet, to wield their quills,
unite the beat, weld weary wills.
So listen wide, ***** up your eyes,
and take my pride, my petty sighs,
into your prance; I'll be in tow,
and we shall dance, 'til candles blow.