How he would live the songs he wrote for her
And she would sing his words without dispute.
How he, his heart and soul they did concur,
Believing she a diva of repute.
And who would doubt, he did not love her so,
A songstress born to sing, a voice divine,
And he with quill and ink in candle glow,
Composing her in airs of valentine.
And she to be the singer of the song,
And he to be the author of her voice.
Each word of love, in love where they belong,
Burn late the light, he’d toil and then rejoice.
How he, in verse and rhyme, in love insist,
Though she, sang not a word, did not exist.