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Perpetual pessimist clings to feeling that maybe things are reasonably alright
Perpetual pessimist clings to feeling that maybe things are reasonably alright
“Graciousness," does my courter claim,
as one may charge a queen.
Though I don peasant rags
their accusation is for me.
“Darling,” declares my doting doxy,
an adoration adornéd dare.
Dauntless, though, I don’t deny
the appeal adrift in air.
“Something special,” so says my suitor,
the bestower of sweet sobriquets.
Sipping between sober seconds,
a lush in limbo, longing to love them best.
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