My trusty lance can slay the ache
Of erstwhile fancies I hail
Or charms from a fairytale

But not the stuff of common make
Though it's point be sharp for my need
And yields me life when I will
The shaft turns weak to my feel
When as purpose I wield for greed

Still, I examine the lance I hold
To challenge the pull of fate
Or at least instill debate
Perchance to score a bag of gold

Yet purpose matters naught to she
For her aim is always true
And were her shaft rent in two
Her handle would forever be

Ah, yes my lance bears quite a thrust
To hold her anon I must
To polish off scornful dust
Lest she die from disdainful rust

July 11, 1990 D.P. Groberg