A poor lost man is wasting time.
To think of love, and think it rhyme.
Like slow soft music made with chime.
Like only sweet, in that of lime.
Like David's faith amid the shrine.
-- But he, the man, will take no time!
Not waiting, debating, to see the sings.
If whom the love he love's devine.
--Soon enough, he calls her "mine"
He'll buy her flowers, he'll buy her wine.
He'll make her laugh, and hear her cry.
---- But will he waste all of his prime?
-- The man may have the strongest arms,
but his inner soul for love is slow.
To emotions overbearing glow
(faster than any muscles grow)
----The woman's the wisest one of which,
to the man she opens arms.
No deadlier arms could arm her arms.
The stronger arms, with all her charms.
She'll play with love, as cats with yarn.
She'll start to sow, his love as darn.
She'll make him beg in full alarm,
then leave him lone, complete in harm.
A man will watch his lady's eyes.
He sees her looks, but the spirit hides.
He sees her beauty, does not realize.
The good, or bad, which she confides.
--If he thinks her great, he thinks of lies.
For he knows not, but that of eyes.
Conversations he might despise,
he'll think of looks, and then surmise.
He loves to be loved.
But if he lost his love,
Her good looks gone,
would there still be love?
-- As he'd say yes, he'd soon be leaving.
And soon the girl would be there grieving.
----Love hallucinates the minds perceiving.
Yes, it is the man's full fault,
To say "I love you" and then to hault.
Look to the next, though he may.
Prefabricate to all dismay.
He does not care with whom he may,
share his feelings in that way.
He calls it love,
but the girl today,
will call it fake,
and no longer stay
For love is forever in the one that it holds.
Not the lust or touching desires of old.
-- With the person, it should mold.... and bold.
And carry the soul.
-- It's not hot and sexy, it's cold.
It's growing like grass, and can't change in a flash.
It can't happen over night, or occur on first sight.
It's old, it's old! It takes time to grow, time to mold
It's old, like the green icky mold, takes time to learn, and time to show.
It's not like snow, it will stay in it's hold.
It's not like gold, it can't be bought, nor sold.
It's old, It's old! It takes time to grow, time to mold,
It's old! It's old!
Friday, October 11, 2002