Does she not look appealing?
Does her gaze never snatch your soul
In a breaking of a second?
Tell me, mate, how she easily cuts your bole,
The very pillar of your stoutness,
The motionless boulder of sturdiness.
Is she not always appearing
At times you harness your rigidness?
In that bogie amid your train of thoughts,
Has she not swooped in and erased those prepared phrased?
Is she not the very sun of your lovely summer day?
Have you never found yourself at naught in just writing a page?
Yet when ‘she’ is the topic,
All swiping and whipping of pen come rushing in a sudden,
And pages mount up to heaps of scroll
For just a describing of how she turned the ballroom golden.
Final Fantasy IX has conditioned me to attempt to steal every last item from every boss in any RPG where it’s a possibility. God damn it, Zidane.