His bold eyes flash as he begins his tale—

It’s somehow more outlandish than the last.

As he embellishes his shadowed past,

 I wonder why his charm has not yet failed

To pull me in and keep me in his thrall.

I can’t but help think he’s not as he seems.

He looks at me, I smile, and he beams,

And then he’s off again. His stories all

Are fitting to a raconteur – someone

Whose tales and anecdotes are all told

So that the sun seems to shine bright like gold,

And you could listen till the day is done.

His voice’s music rivals fair Apollo,

And his eyes blazing tell me that he knows

That vale and hill and hell, wherever he goes,

His magic voice means I will always follow.