You wear a shiny crown on your kingly head,
reigning over your ladies with suggestive smiles and teasing winks.
We blush and mutter, the nerve of him but all of us
want to be your princess.
None understand the way you steal our dreams and fill them with your image.
Oh, but the ruined girls, the Rapunzels with soiled, oily hair
and you, the holy man, converting them.
I admit to the midnight letters, delivered most-unladylike with
a yellow acacia or foul-smelling honey flower.
But, my lord, my lover, I know what's behind that cavalier grin and
I pity the wishful dreamer who sets her eyes on you.