Okay, the next time I’ll have taken lessons,
boned up lots on all your bout rules.
Only the French could explain why
the assault is the friendlier game name.
No, you want ours to be a full-on bout
to the very tapped out finish, you say.
Okay, you asked for it, love.
Buzzers will be going off all over your body, baby,
lighting you up like some kind of a fencing match Christmas tree.

Okay, this time around, yeah, I was all parry, not much thrust.
You clashed like a master, graded me underwhelming.
My weak epee, you say, couldn’t stand up to your highest standards. 
Thus was the match decided in your favor,
or as you say, not in mine – touché.

Fallen from favor, next time I’ll be prepared,
swashbuckled in for an epic duel,
the most en garde any fencer ever en garded.
I’ll allez unlike anyone who’s ever allezed.
And before you know it,
I’ll be head over heels on my back –
wait, I meant the other way around –
next time you tell me to prove
I’m up for some sport, deserve at least a
meets or exceeds expectations evaluation,
next time,
I swear it.

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