My Wit Is More Polished

My Wit Is More Polished Than Your Mustache. The Truth Which I Speak Strikes More Sparks From Men's Hearts Than Your Spurs Do From The Cobblestones.

A Kiss, When All Is Told, What Is It? An Oath Taken A Little Closer, A Promise More Exact. A Wish That Longs To Be Confirmed, A Rosy Circle Drawn Around The Verb 'to Love'. A Kiss Is A Secret Which Takes The Lips For The Ear, A Moment Of Infinity Humming Like A Bee, A Communion Tasting Of Flowers, A Way Of Breathing In A Little Of The Heart And Tasting A Little Of The Soul With The Edge Of The Lips!

Your Neck. I Want To Kiss It.

My Wit Is Sharper Then The Finest Mustache, And When I Walk Among Men I Make Truths Ring Like Spurs.

Where Lurk Sweet Echoes Of The Dear Homevoices, Each Note Of Which Calls Like A Little Sister, Those Airs Slow, Slow Ascending, As The Smokewreaths Rise From The Hearthstones Of Our Native Hamlets Cyrano Act 5.