Confession of a Would-Be Lover

Maybe once in the beginning I claimed to be a prince
But I soon withdrew that bogus claim and haven’t made it since
And I wished for shining armor that would make me a brave knight
But I found it either too expensive or otherwise too tight
And I never had a charger or a white and well-bred horse
Nor have I fought a battle or led a well-trained force

And I know that I have failed you and not treated you aright
And no excuse will quite ring true, but I am not a knight

Perhaps in the initial days I claimed to have it figured out
But I now openly admit my great wisdom was in doubt
And I strived to be a philosophe, or a wise and learned man
But study, thought, and the lack of both thwarted my best plan
And I never met with Aristotle or tried to study Socrates
Nor have I learned from Plato, I have flouted all of these

And though I strived to devise truth, and not give in to lies
I fear I misadvised you, for I am not that wise

I suppose when I first met you I claimed to be a bard
But I soon discovered poetry comes unnaturally hard
And I tried to find artistic words and develop witty rhymes
But I soon found it a bother and would not give the time
So I never wrote a ballad, a limerick, or a verse
And I tried to write a sonnet once but it came out quite adverse

And even my confession here is not much to be heard
I make my profession clear: I am not that good with words

So, if the time has come and gone that I may apologize
I’ll tuck my tail between my legs and forget a second try
For, though I grieve that I have lied, and by deception lost you
It weighs more heavily inside, all that my lies have cost you
For I am not a knight, I am not wise, and I am not eloquent
And, in hindsight, I recognize that I left you no fair hint

But I thought the truth of who I am not worthy of who you are
For I am but a wealthless man, with naught to offer but my heart
So, now the truth is free and clear, and I present myself to you
It’s not what you deserve, my dear, but it’s the best this peasant can do