Oh vitruvian saint,
and the master of my heart,
how your sight makes me faint,
how through me your arrows dart.
I have often wondered which God made you,
the secret that is your erudite bones,
how at dawn you fall like the dew,
and rise at dusk like the resonant tone.
To see you chant Chaucer in your sleep,
and recite the periodic table to your kids,
I fall in love with you deep.
Alas! She has already called her dibs.
Your beauty and her grace go hand in hand,
And i am left here standing alone in the strand.