The Romantic

Here’s some satiric poetry inspired by Ben “Yahtzee” Croshaw’s cocky modern verse. (I’ve attempted to use the anapest, but since this is my first attempt, I’m not quite sure about the success of my execution) 

There lived a romantic with daydreams of gold,

He brooked and confessed love in words proud and bold

To every dame passing his idle sojourn,

His days fancy prose and gay songs did govern.

 

One day, he descried a fair maiden in white,

Who blushed at his glance, clutching wild flowers tight,

And danced in the breeze, singing softly and sweet

As peaches in spring was the minstrel indeed.

 

The noble young man was as charmed as can be,

He gripped his pale pen and spewed rich poetry,

Before he accosted the beauteous broad,

And said, drunk with love (Oh, I pity the sod),

 

“Young lady be mine, and my heart claim to keep,

Pray, claim that I put that blush there on your cheek,

Forsooth, your decline would condemn me to weep-

Oh, can we but truly get married this week?”

 

And giggled the lady, so flattered she was,

And took his firm hand- no demurring, no pause-

“I’ll be your fair bride if you’ll give me your all;

The songs of your strength your pale pen stands to scrawl.”

 

And so the two youths sauntered down hand in hand,

Into the red sunset, towards lonely lands,

Where, smitten, the lad did indeed use his pen

To evince his zeal in the arable glen.

 

So truly he loved her, so soundly he slept,

And dreamed of the rosy-cheeked babes he’d beget.

When dawn graced their shady nook with golden shine,

He woke with the glow of manhood in its prime.

 

And seeking the bringer of joy bountiful,

He turned on their mossy bed, saying, “Beautiful…?”

But oh, there was naught but a few broken leaves

Where lain had the wonder of his youthful dreams.

 

And found he his pen and a note in the cap,

Saying, “Night was great, honey, and so was the nap…

But now that your pen and free verse I have seen,

To stay and get married, no more am I keen.”

 

The poor young romantic lamented and wept,

His spirit was shattered and sundered and swept

Into the forsaken brown valley of woe,

Alas, off the cliff then himself he did throw.

 

‘And what of the vixen?’ concerned, you enquire.

Oh, stood she before a mirror to admire

Her newly combed tresses and fresh powdered jaw,

And thought of the foolish young lad to guffaw.

 

So folks, this dour tale does bespeak the sour truth-

Beware, naïve young maidens and hon’rable youth,

Don’t let the romantics your standards perplex,

It’s really quite simple; it’s all about sex.