When I’m in love I turn to rhyme:

A thousand mountains I would climb,

An ocean far and wide I’d wade —

That’s ample love for you, I prayed.

But rhymes are just deceptions writ

With mellow words of shallow wit.

Precocious girls like you’d surmise

That I am wicked 'neath my guise.

Yet I would write a silly line,

Clichés superfluous, fibs of mine

That couldn’t even children woo,

In hope that you would get my clue,

And tell me I could hold your hand,

That poems of mine are not just bland

Linguistic games of a teenaged swain —

It’s not in my nature to feign. So again,

When I’m in love I turn to rhyme:

A thousand mountains I would climb,

To swear to you that I’ll be true.

My love is genuine through and through.

And years from now there’ll be a time,

Bouquets of flowers, church bells chime.

An honest man in me you’ll see;

An honest woman I’ll make thee.