Carousel

I'll give one chance, my dear, to pluck a rose.
And when you catch me, place its stem between
my grasp: The emerald thorns of envy rise
in reddened, passioned promises of "me

and you." My dear, come follow close behind.
My Fafner should not scare you. Golden bound
along round paths, he guards his princess, blind
to knights like you, who seek to earn my crown.

Mount your whitened stallion—but sheath your glaive.
Don't fear his claws; just fear I'll fly away.
You'll gallop up and down with metal gears
and plated poles to grant my lovely spray.

Come close, and let the rose untame its smell.
My dearest, give chase on this carousel.