SoP 12: "El Paso" and Another one Re: The Admirer

El Paso
sung by Chris Thile

(Go to 52:02... that's where the song starts)

A pianist sat beneath a tree
atop a verdant hill
And passed her days writing away
letting her mind go where it will.

Now a phantom lived atop the tree
Where the pianist liked to be
And soon became smiten with what she'd written
"I think I'm in love," thought he.


But the phantom could not tell his love
Of his feelings strong
Without her sight knowing, without his face showing
Until an idea came along.

He knew she kept her writing book
Inside the olden tree
"I'll leave a not ehtere, my thoughts I will share."
He wrote, then waited to see.

The pianist she came very early next morn
And a curious sight she found:
She found her book, 'steand of in the nok
Opened up near rock on the soft ground.

She found a note scrawled on a page
"I thiink I'm in love!" it declared.
She came most suspicious. "I wonder who this is,"
For she was the only one there.

This continued for a few weeks more
Till the pianist cried, "enough!"
"If yourself you don't show, anonymity goes!"
"I'm tired of secrety stuff."

Then she wondered, "¿qué pasará?"
"Would the admirer lose the strong heart
If he couldnt stay 'non'mous? Did I sound too auton'mous?"
"No, this is right, in my heart."

Weeks later she sat in her tree
Upon a surly branch
When from up in the tree came a sight to see,
The phantom stood below with timid stance.

"Ive been your secret admirere,"
He said in a tone most shy.
"I had to profess, I tried to confess
my love for you," he sighed.

The pianist crossed her arms and smiled at him
A smile thick-laden with pity.
"You sure have some gumption. I make the assumption
YYou'd like to stay'n anonymity?"

The phantom nodded eagerly,
enamorous glint in his eye.
The pianist shook her head, and to herself she said,
"Least I know who those notes are by."
-----
I whipped this up late, I know the meter's off, but I had to write this in light of a revelation. Yes, the Admirer's finally revealed himself to me. I'm not only a technicality freak, I'm also a chiquita of my word. In "The Dangers of Loving an Imp" (SoP 7), I "threatened" (paraphrased) "Unless you give me some sort of clue to your identity, poof goes the anonymous option." So, because he i.d.'ed himself to me, I'll be nice and keep the option of anonymity for future commentage.

SoP 7: "To His Coy Mistress" and The Danger of Loving an Imp

To His Coy Mistress
Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart;
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
- - - - -
The Danger of Loving an Imp
Tis dangerous to love a slyish imp,
To strangers she is quite skeptic
And when she's a skeptic, the stranger is prone
To 'ceive blows most knavish, that's typic.

Inately s'picious, she gets quite confused
About her nameless admirer.
And when she's confused, you'd better watch out
For iminent impish-like fire.

With folk she don't know, whose i.d. stay mum
Under the veil "Anon'mous,"
She smirks a sly smirk, and says to herself,
"I've 'cided to be auton'mous...

"...And possibly wield my blog-running power
By ex-naying that shadowy shroud
And so my Admirer'd have to say something,
No longer 'hind the 'nonymous cloud."

And with a poised finger she almost did press
The button to cut off the choice,
And then she did think, "But what if the guy
Loses the courage, his voice?"

The impish girl thought, then with a sigh-shrug,
"I'll give it just one more small chance."
And so, Secret One, I say to you now,
To willingly show self's last chance.
- - - - -
To be frank, if a certain somebody (you know who you are) doesn't give me some kind of clue (blogger profile link, webpage/blog link), the option of comments-in-complete-anonymity's going adios, sianara, good-day-to-you-sir. I've been good enough to inadvertantly give a certain somebody a glimpse of my soul, I think I deserve the same.
- - - - -
I apologize for neglecting to post a poem yesterday, I simply didn't have time to whip anything up. Perhaps I'll double up one of these next days.