Blarney

(I.)
Only a fool would try, in line by line
Of fair assessment honestly expressed,
To paint with words the finest of the fine
Beauties of which you solely are possessed.
No elegance would not seem spread too thin;
And he who’d try would never be believed,
For none would see as truth the truth therein,
But think it all a lover’s eyes deceived.
So candid pics and videos must record
What speech could never adequately limn,
And would be doubted elsewise word for word,—
The evidence being hearsay and far too slim.
Yet, all of these leave much too much to doubt:—
All flaws would seem, no doubt, photoshopped out.

(II.)
Like two caves spun with dusty cobweb-snares
Guarding a cache of emeralds is your nose.
Your globby eyes find shade ‘neath oxen hairs.
Like two thin frowning mustaches are your brows.
With microscopic mites your shiny skin
Glints, like a hanging fruit’s with aphid flies
Flitting around about and out and in,
Or a hot, oil-glistened frenchèd fry’s.
Like hard, mini marshmallows are your teeth.
Your lips, like jellied dextromethorphan.
Oh! oh! to be that rubber sole beneath
Those knobby tubers made for kicking a can!
But here again the painting is askew:
It lacks that certain something that’s in you.

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