Cervantes, like that painting I made when she was away

Each of us has windmills

And I my De La Mancha

To take her fill and slip me a pill

And taunt my little Panza

Just one of her sighs or sleepless nights

Would fill me overflowing

‘Ere these faults of mine or even the wine

Turned up the seeds for sowing

So fetch me my steed

And hand me my lance

For lifetimes hide in chance yet