What of her manners, soft, silly and sweet
Gliding gracefully about my wanting eyes
I cannot speak her my thoughts, though I'll try
Should our pupils meet and should our fingers meet

Yet I cannot be certain that that will happen
Unless it happens or I make it happen
But how should it happen? I'm growing desperate
No, that's not the spirit, and I'm sure there's a pun

Shall I start with a riddle? Shall I play her the fiddle?
Shall I call her "damsel"? Wouldn't that be idle?

I have lost my wits when it comes to love
How do I court? It seems I've forgotten
And with each new passion, my senses just grow rotten
But of course, He has the answer, the one up above
The best answer to burning love is to practice self-banter

So I'll try the ridicule option
I'll try to declare my sinful passion
The angels will snicker and her white wings will slap the fool
The fool that I am
Full of desire, "I just admire
The way you walk and talk and your attire?"
I should try that, I should try that
Or I should vanish in oblivion and bury my love
Lest I be banished from her sight
For having overcome my fright

...What is there to risk?