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If I could scramble – backwards –
To the chance I didn’t see,
And marshal slack, and weak words,
To allure such as she,

Would charms and quip evade me?
Commonly, in awe
Of bonnie ones – yet here
‘T was a chance I never saw.

She is fair, and famous,
The pride of England’s North.
And I, its lamest laggard,
As yet to prove my worth.

I’d have rambled tensely,
And stammered clauses strange,
Or tongue tied, said nothing –
No meeting there arranged.

Steal twelve hours from the gods
Retrograde and certain
Beat the clock, against the odds
Raise again the final curtain
Take the glass I smashed in awe
And the wine that spilled so freely
Pick the shards up from the floor
Take me back, I wish so dearly

Then when my nerves sat later,
And hope, a crypt to close –
I’d rue it, even louder –
Lost chance to win this rose

Or maybe I’d have charmed her
And caught her clear eye,
And won her with my wit, while
Tounges, awag, would cry:

Who’s this, who had the card that
Enchanted England’s rose?
Alas I learned too late that
She was single, I suppose…


D D/F# G A9* x3
D A7
D D/F# G A9

Middle 8
G A9 G A9 x2
G Gm D A7
D D/F# G A9

Small print

© 2020 Pete Beat. All Rights Reserved. Cover image “Wires” by James Loesch licensed under the Creative Commons 2.0 Attribution