The Love Song of Albert Hempstock the 45th

I sometimes dribble a dibble when I quibble with my one truer than blue love.
She is the most highly engaging hovering presence around me more than above
I and we are amidst such amore' and such- words fail to be write
it is the love song I want to sing except that I get confused although
mostly and really only at night.

I often sit around piddling about some thoughts so base as to be fiddling
with a verse or three or four or five, which is to say that it is more middling
between constraint and conscience that I have found to be my life.
She and by that I mean we are so close to each other that I could almost
say I want you so to become my wife.

I play harp to the violin and piano to the great big blue bassoon
she laughs at my antics as I declare my feelings almost in tune
under the stars and her window which is to whom I proclaim
such hot and firing, filled with utmost desiring, the mass of this passion
which is more than a moon nor whatever is in a name!

So he sings of his love song into the darkness of night
that lover of love, the writer of passion and delight
Alfred Hempstock, in love with an amusing myth
that we all can find things best left undefined
this is the 45th suitor after all and thus he
must be forwith.

So go get the girl, it's almost a cliche
or something almost sexist, yet pardonable
before the twilling shrilling twilight
bleeds forth the lost romances
that songs often replay.