My Botticelli.

The black wires growing from my pate        
shrivel to see great golden ropes        
my dark hued skin I now near hate        
to see this pale figure, I grope        
to find a likeness but, no hope...        
I've nothing to make kin of us,        
even when I am most disrobed        
I can't match this modest Venus.        
       
Her pudicity echos Eve        
curtained by palm and flowing hair        
borne to the shore on Zephyr's breeze        
born in Neptune's salty sea lair        
as Chloris waits with floral cloak        
I try to cup my mons veneris        
but find thick denim, envy chokes,        
I cannot match this sylph, Venus.        
       
Mother of Rome that bossom fed        
the ancestor of The Empire        
Aeneas, whom Caeser, tis said,        
claimed as his sire's sire's sire...        
But, my breast suckled my heart's desire        
as I kiss and hug, pet and fuss        
and grip my child with fierce fire        
and lose the urge to ape, Venus...