Conquering Love

With hope my single ideology, innocence my only weapon,

I rose out of the nursery and went to conquer Love.

I passed all the girls in cellophane, said No to the ones in bows.

No purpose found I in frivolity: I was out to conquer Love.

And Love was a Virgin in a Pershing tank, a saint in burnished chain mail.

And I was Bubba in a pickup truck, an Eskimo in underwear.

Still, no purpose found I in frivolity. I was out to conquer Love.

So: I fell on Love with my Weakness, and I fell on Love with my Hope,

Fell on Love with my Purpose – was all-out to conquer Love.

But my belief blunted to memory, and my arms were battered to guile.

I fell back into my hatchery – I was out, oh! conquered by Love.

‘Cause Love’s a Virgin in a Sherman tank, Guan Yin in a steel nuptial veil.

I was a hick in a beat-up truck, an Eskimo exposed to the bare.

Though I found no purpose in frivolity, I was downed, conquered by Love.

And so now I pass my time with cellophane girls, say Yes to those in bows;

manservant of this world I found, not one to conquer Love.

But sometimes fondly I remember the days before I learned my craft

When, once in my hopes and my weakness. I had set out to conquer Love.

--Duane Vorhees