Baudelaire has nothing on me.
For all his scriptures and beautiful prose
He may say that you have beauty beyond words;
I buy you chocolate on my way home from work.
No, I may not be a McCartney.
Words often elude me at important times.
I may not tell you that you’re my everything;
Instead, I iron your shirt late on a Sunday.
I will never be a Picasso.
What does he possess that I don’t?
He might paint you in a thousand shades of red;
I put yellow peppers in your food.
I am not as dainty as Loren –
She was always too skinny anyway.
She might flash you ‘come-to-bed’ eyes;
I turn the sheets back and put in a hot water bottle.
When all is said and done –
It’s the little things that make it.