Hail to thee good Sir, I chanced to notice thou have needs
I find myself without employ, I’m sure that thine heart bleeds
Yet still I proffer thee my troth, perchance thou may comply
Lest morrow brings for lady fair, such time no food can buy
Replete with charges numbered four, whom appetite’s doth rule
‘Hand me downs’ at best threadbare, no longer dressed for school
A home bereft of comforts, now love has flown the coop
Said ‘Sunday Roast’ as was my due, replaced by bowls of soup
I plead my case with hopeful heart in trusting thou art just
Pray pity please on my poor soul, this once, if can be fussed
Such skills required by thy good self, though not within remit
I may attain with help from Muse, to match thy profile writ
A ‘Troubadour’ I am in truth, with stories to impart
Verbose of quill, embellished thought, mere tools which set apart
Midst journeymen within thy force of thousand fold or more
I dare e’en one has e’er set eyes on such as I, not heretofore
A life of drab existence, no hope of change it seems
If thou wouldst share thine ink with me, I’ll pen for thee such “Stuff of Dreams”