To thee whom I long to taste,
After a night of battling paper dragons
with a sword of ink
I know that you aren’t far off
and yet I can’t seem to produce enough
quarters to pay for your dark nectar.
My dear whose perfume alone transfixes,
I wish to break this wooden barrier
where the scarved beauty
adorned in a jeweled apron
awaits my payment
so we may be united.
Oh bittersweet love of mine,
who urges me to draw near
I fear our affair can not continue,
as valiant as I may be,
it seems your soft brown skin
will never touch my hands, my lips.
I bid thee adieu steaming delicacy,
contain the foaming tears
yet resist the braceleted aproness
when she pawn you to another.
I shall shuffle to my room,
my hands searching my pockets.
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