Chocolates nor roses he gave not,
But a poem he wrote, my heart he got;
He wasn't much of a poem writer,
But his poem got my yes for an answer.
I see him more as a guitar player,
All sorts he can play, he was a rocker;
At a moment's notice he changed to classical,
Now he can play both, it feels magical.
Today I'm flooded,
Tired, I'd like to be abed;
All sorts of bills, grand,
Without the funds at hand.
It's one of those days,
That's common, always;
I'm like a butterfly,
Halfway out the cocoon to fly.
It's part of those training days,
Optimism upheld, it stays;
It's part of life, I know,
Should overcome it with glow.
Tonight's the last night,
To score highest, I'll go fight;
It's the prize I really need,
I'm living the poverty's creed.
See the picture above,
The cheque is what I love;
The trophy beside it,
Will my hands match the feat?
