I’ve never had much of a social life,
But she’s always been quite the socialite;
And even though I’ve been so polite,
She’s always shown me no requite.
She’s perched atop a mountain peak,
While I’m 20,000 leagues, under the sea;
Dotting every i, crossing every T,
She never seems to miss a beat.
She’s so perfectly pristine—
I, the servant, and she the queen;
And, though, I’d give her my everything...
I’ve never really had a thing.
All I have to give, is this gift of words,
And a heart that’s filled with chirping birds,
A vocabulary rich with working verbs...
But, it's a song that she’s already heard.
Yet, I sit beneath her windowsill,
With my trusty ink and feather-quill,
And serenade her nightly, still;
My heart, to her, I'll forever spill.