I’m not a man who tilts at old windmills.
Where I was raised a windmill means I’m home.
I do own armor, but it’s clean and bright.
I only wear it out for festive days.
I have no broken-down old nag that spills
me off into the dust. And unlike some,
no comic sidekick, wiser by a sight,
strides beside me through all my forays.
I don’t live like the Don, though I am told
the differences aren’t always there to spot.
My honor and true love leave me star-crossed
A mad, old-fashioned chivalric. And bold.
I follow, though, in this. For years I’ve sought
Dulcinea, who Quixote’d lost.