I see the knights marching down, a coagulum of French muscles from ancestors hunting the hawk.
They told me they were fiery, of flames igniting their chests. It was love, as they’ve been told. The damosels were clothed of layers from satin stitches, while beneath are modesty of the skin weaved by Athena. All of them had possessions of beauty.
But men were at it again. They offered hammocks of serene rivers on a countryside. Few whistles and even eyeing. Some waved their hands painted with calluses from a seven to five grind. And guess what? Only few bucks were brought home. Yet chins are headed upward, shoulders raised into pride, as mockery wrapped with compliments flow from the gist of their praises. No petticoat lips told them it was a threat. Others were Rapunzels, laying down their hair for knights who couldn’t climb. Should they be blamed for trickery at the end of fine lines? I bet they shouldn’t.
The villagers would level a forefinger not on the elders, but to innocence dainted with calling. Truth be told, they reprimanded a demoiselle more, and those wisenheimer less.
Another wakening, the neighborhood isn’t ready for this talk.