Classic Poem

For years I've gnashed my metaphoric
Bicuspids at the rhapsodies
When poets praised, in rhyme caloric,
Myrtilla, Chloi, Heloise.
Unmoved by Moore's or Shelley's rapture,
'Spite all these songs, I was a dumb one —
Though I, too, longed and yearned to capture
A not ungracious some one.

And now — oh dream come true — I've seen her;
Not in a poem, but a dress;
Which, with her classical demeanor,
Is something verse cannot express.
Her window faces mine, and nightly
My far from bashful eyes behold her...
She has an arm that's not unsightly,
A neck and such a shoulder!

And yet when my inamorata
Begins to practice Grieg, and when
From her medulla oblongata
Aida's sorrows sound again,
No longer does her beauty blind me
For, though she's fair as day a-dawning,
My faithful wife comes up behind me,
And then — lets down the awning.