Oh how I gaze upon thee
Lovingly, hands clasped in prayer
Down on my knees
My lips O open
Murmuring a silent plea
Oh how I long to be
A tress of your beauty
A fingertip of your kindness
A whisper of your decree
Why is it?
Each day
a new Yeoman god
Perched upon my pillar of pining
Who are you?
For how long have I
Switch, swap, substitute
Another pair of
Well-worn boots
Positioned
on my day to day dais
Oh how I wish to see
why
Atop my socle
it’s always a princess of
The bourgeoisie
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