My days are often drenched with pulchritude,
And though I’m grateful for its copiousness,
Some situations beg me to conclude
There’s such a thing as beauty in excess.
On handsome men I usually bestow
A smile or cheerful greeting, but there’s one
Whose glorious perfection brings me woe
Because his presence interrupts my tongue.
An aspect of his fineness undefined
Short-circuits my attempts at fluency,
My word retrieval slackens to a grind,
And awkwardness derails my raillery.
Abandoned by linguistic competence,
A smile and wave may be my best defense.
And now, singing.