They're all pissed at me, the women.
For one thing, I smell funny and I get way too drunk. And I sing too loud, and the songs don't always rhyme.
The missus knows me best, and so she's always mad at me. The mutual sacrifice of our love consists of this: putting up with one another day in and day out while not forgetting the four lost chords that brought us together, the love song that has never died away, but that is sometimes too hard to hear, as our senses grow dull and our ears close up. It's hard to pick out because it's a melody we're humming every day as we go about our business, a harmony that is not always harmonious when we try to sing it. We get used to it. We forget that it's poetry - and all poetry is simply a song of love - even when you can't hear the rhyme or follow the meter. And even when you're tired at the breakfast table and she looks awful and you look worse because you stayed up too late the night before.
The Princess, who once answered my song, continues to have the guards dump slop pots on my head if ever I sing near the castle. She looks pristine in public (is it pristine or is it prissy?) She sets her demeanor in a pose, a fixed pose - but I'm usually there in the crowd, the smelly, messy crowd, cheering up at her. And every now and then I see a crack in that armor, a chink - every now and then I see her face flinch and I can tell she's still listening for those four lost chords - chords she's outlawed and declared must never be played in her presence - but chords I think I once strummed beneath her window (though I was pretty tipsy and may only have been making noise).
And finally, my Lady - I carry her portrait with me wherever I go. It is for her that I write. She shows me how to love, she shows me how to write and to sing - and I hear the tune answered back to me, sung through her heart, pierced with many arrows - and with a few darts (my love songs), some of which sting and draw blood. And draw an answer, a tune that matches mine and that is more than a mere echo in the empty dark.
They're all pissed at me, and I can't blame them.
But for those who have ears to hear, the melody plays on, and my heart is happy, for my song has been and is being answered.
I suppose that's why he continues to write.