Yes, every poet needs a Beatrice,
An angel hailed with an iambic kiss,
A spectral love lost in the mists of time,
A muse saluted with nostalgic rhyme,
A saintly soul with sweet compassionate eyes
Whom lovestruck sonneteers must canonize,
An icon greeted with a swinging thurible
Of lyric incense and longing incurable.
But if by chance his verse she could peruse,
She'd cringe to read his praises, so profuse!
She'd think, "Such terrible clichés! Why can't he
Give it a rest? He's certainly no Dante!"