Why They Are Shaped Like That

Gently I caress her curves and take her in my arms,
Fingers lightly stroking as I coax from her, her charms.
As I seek out her secrets, revealing each delight,
She offers me a fresh and subtle mystery each night.

And when I touch her as she wants, how can I not rejoice
To revel once again within the magic of her voice.
There’s no one who ignites my soul as she does when she sings.
She’s such a giving mistress when I play upon her strings.

When I am melancholy, she sings both sad and low,
Offering a soothing balm to ease my sense of woe.
And when I’m in a lighter mood, then how she loves to dance.
Following me, move for move, in every circumstance.

She forgives my clumsy fumbling as I learn the art
Of drawing out her music from the echoes of her heart.
I’m yet a skill-less lover, ever striking the wrong note.
Still, the promise of her melody keeps all my hopes afloat.

Wiser heads than mine might not indulge in the conceit.
But when she’s nestled in my lap, that’s when I’m most complete.
So who can blame me if I take my metaphor too far?
There’s none who want me so I give my love to my guitar.