How long it's been, since I have played my part,
And graced my muse with hollow verse & art,
How long I've slacked & left my pen alone,
For want of verse my paper's screamed and moaned,
Called back, I write, compose and bawl,
For lack of topics, better or at all.
And yet, this muse shall work, though I forgot,
This topic - just as graecian, as I've sought -
Suffices, works and is my subject now,
Congratulations Clam, you're like new snow,
As Alexander Pope once wrote, let's go!
"In beauty, faults conspicuous grow;
the smallest speck is seen on snow"
A long, long time ago, I saw you play,
Your fingers danced on piano keys like fey,
And thank the lord I do, I do not sail,
Or else I would have struck some rocky gale,
And lost my life, though but another sailor,
Life taken by a Siren's song, a whaler,
A fisherman or pirate could be but a corpse,
Strewn all over the rocky shores and warfs.
Although my vapid verse grows weaker here,
Please do not fear, but please persevere!
For want of aim, of topics, words to write,
I'll compliment you as is true and right:
Your golden locks could never be replaced,
Less I were to follow Jason's pace
And find the golden fleece, or else like Loki,
I could find some dwarves and gold and form some gnocchi,
But no, for pasta's not as pretty, no,
It's hard to write these things, when I don't know,
Just how you move and smile or gaze at things,
Those little idiosyncracies,
They make a person's beauty breathe, you see,
And well, I don't know how you are,
But your mind, that's what I know, it's now the star!
I like the way you like good things and stuff,
So rarely, seldomly I hear enough,
Of music, see nice paintings talked about
Or love of books, if still by quacks called out.
I like your taste, lament how little we speak,
You're far too busy, you could fix and tweak
Your schedual for when your school starts up,
And do it all like me, in a few hours,
Mind numbing, but quite short and roll in flowers,
Lay down in meadows, see the clourds and stars,
Make note of how much smarter you are,
Compared to all your brethren stars above
And have enough free time the world to love.
But either way, I'll live, because... why not?
As I've written of the sea, I'll write of yachts,
Of diving seas for pearls white in my youth,
Those good old days, of salty water, truth,
And jewelry to be, how I miss them!
Oh wait! I call you Clam, and whence that stems,
I'll tell you now, instead of yachts, you see...
Your poodle, Perla, she's a pearl, I'll be!
I'll dive for her, just like those good, old times,
And look at that! This whole thing even rhymes!