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My Love is like the Sword Excalibur,
Though many have been involved in the quest for it,
It still remains unsheathed,
Bequeathed to no one,
It awaits the maiden whose affection laden,
Whose Hand approaches the hilt of my soul,
Those special delicate fingers armed with the ability,
To not just stimulate my virility,
But my total emotional stability,
To suddenly become unstable,
And unable to control the rushing torrent of feelings,
Gushing into my chamber of conscious,
Only she may wield such a weapon,
The love of a man willing to die for her,
Lie by her,
Cry for her when something deep inside pries her,
And causes her to enter a place of anguish,
I will surely vanquish,
Banish then subsequently replenish,
With all of my life force,
Earnestly importuning the Lord to give me more,
So that I may constantly uphold her,
Tirelessly console her,
Never aim to control her,
But always be there for support.
For as long as she hefts the blade of my passion,
My heart upon my sleeves will always be in fashion,
I reckon,
Every second of everyday will be an adventure,
Of her tearing through the jungle of my distrust,
With a weapon that is just,
It stands for Justice,
And just us.
Excalibur has found its home.



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