Brendon Urie
Exhuberance, legitimacy to the word
that is what he is
He is my lord
it is you Brendon Urie who I adore
your voice like a songbird
Echoing through my mind as I imagine his perfectly chiseled features
He is sitting in a rose garden
Dressed in a crimson suit
Hair slicked back, hands on a white piano
I wish I was the piano
In his hands, under his care
musical craft is his niche
and all I can do
Is sit here bewitched
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