Troyer

He robbed the cradle,
When she was eighteen,
Built her a castle,
And made her his queen.

He strums her ballads,
With his air guitar,
It beckons her to the bedroom,
When she’s near or far.

Through hell and high water,
He would roam,
Her knight in shining armor,
To bring her home.

He’s not much for candles,
Flowers, or roses.
He wooes her in sandals,
And sexy poses.

She is the purple martin,
In his sky,
She’s the shiny red apple,
Of his eye.

She’s his ace of spades,
His royal crown,
Their love never fades,
From sun up to sun down.

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