She walks heavily on her feet,
As she approaches a netted court;
Her torso bounces in rhythmic beat
And my heart sustains a petite mort.

I breathe less when she is present,
And I pause to study her frame;
She is muscled to a greater extent,
Than others of her game.

She smiles and twirls with elegance,
As she acknowledges the crowd;
I sigh for I’m not relevant,
“Sereee-naaa!” I scream out loud.

Her lioness eyes often dare,
And I can hardly speak,
As she tosses balls into the air,
Smashing them at someone's feet!

Her grace is of the panther,
My Hero stretches to make a point;
I long to be her Leander.
Wimbledon could be Hellespont.

Of perspiration and ebony, she glistens,
Muscles ripple with every move;
With sinews and tendons she pistons;
A deuce she artfully eschews.

She’s the Mighty Aphrodite! There’s no challenging her fame!
But I’d like her in a nightie and her calling out my name!

Is there something wrong with me
to have such desire?
For a woman who tosses tennis balls
and smacks them with such fire?

In my bed of redoubtable dreams,
Under cover of a day’s gloaming;
The court’s Aphrodite is my self-love theme
Or so I’m pre-supposing.

With applause from an addicted crowd,
Tennis became my favorite sport.
I shout “Sereee-naaa!” so very loud,
When Mighty Aphrodite takes centre court.