Love is in the air

But do we dare?

No time to prepare

For a royal love affair

Our situation is dire

Those who inquire

Tell the squire

That it’s you I admire

Though they conspire

I’ll never tire

Of your desire

On a wild hair

I meet you there

And when you stare

You are so fair

What would transpire

Would be sung by the choir

And played by the lyre

We could call a ceasefire

But our hearts are singed with desire

And burned by the fire

My resolve melts on the pyre

It’s you I require

Dressed in beautiful attire

I’ll walk through hell-fire

For you, my good sire.

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