The Fatalist

Medieval me,
Cast me in powder,
Dust my hair
And curl my knees.
My silken sir, your strategy
Is oh-so-ashless,
Dry your smile.
Lilac sailor,
Your messages oxidise
As you whisper echoes
Of motion and mice.
You bedded Bambi,
The walkless wonder,
Precious nice
And limply majestic.
Lilyless, I conjure roses.
Limitless, I feign no bones.
My lack of legs is sweetly summoned,
Doves will flock to my lispy tones.
And so, my sir, my lovely lord.
Saddle up, my lovely limb.
I’m lovely late, it’s lovely fate,
Now carry me if you wish.