On rare occasions, after
I have risen for your pleasure,
I'll arise from your side
Stumble down the stairs
And fumble for a phrase,
A word to win your warm and tender gaze.
And if the muse is merciful
I'll spell that special spot
You hold within my heart.
But though the language leads
To feelings fresh and fine,
My critics cry in comments cold and terse
This is not art at all,
But rather just a ploy
To justify the joy
Of bedded, wedded bliss.
In truth, no more than this:
An odd attempt to go from bed to verse.