Gentlemen, I attended church today,
I shouldn't have, but I did anyway.
Sat at the front pew, front pew, me!
Sat right there like a solid devotee,
But it's not why I write, gentlemen,
For that alone, I daren't bleed my pen.
I saw a woman, by no means austere,
With the kind of face man must fear.
I have always feared such women,
Effectively adorned richly in linen.
Eyes, gentlemen, intense black eyes,
And an ample proportion of thighs.
An oddly taciturn and haughty air,
Fits one possessing her kind of hair.
A tall, chic, broad-shouldered goddess,
Perhaps had I not been terribly gutless,
I could have mentioned I liked her lips,
But would she be drawn by such blips?
Certainly not, gentlemen, certainly not.
I couldn't be to her a mere afterthought,
I'm drawn to one whose stares cold my ploys,
Drawn bleakly so to her deep contralto voice,
Drawn so to a body scent so redolent of roses,
And I'll go back if only to behold such goddesses.