Teacher, teacher, oh from whence do you come?
You belongeth in place, far, far, from here
Swayed by the lute, a melodious strum
‘Twas name Mary or perchance Guinevere
Soft flaxen skirt billowing as you dance
Clouds atop London drift aimlessly by
Enraptured glory…renaissance romance
Through swirling hair, young man catches thine eye
“Sprightly young girl…I should have word with you”
You blush oh so slightly…coyly say “sir?”
On Globe’s rough hewn stage…you know what to do
Lips press gently amidst essence of myrrh
One morn’ hand in hand, one night ‘tween his sheets
And long ago words…that taste eversweet
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