Though moods may sinusoidal be,
Cresttrough exchanging, (c’est la vie)
There is a constancy outlined
With roots, albeit undefined.
Love scales the axes, meant to be.
For stronghold stringhold Dame Fate has:
Her whim is law, and all she says
Plump Cupid executes at will
(Her will, that is) – man foots the bill
And que sera, and all that jazz.
So when this Master Puppeteer
Sets line’r paths for us, my dear,
Intending intersections once,
Don’t cater to these fat’list wants:
Let’s thwart with parametric sneer.  
For if we equal line and line
Sans being one, we can’t align
As I am she, and he is you
And love, a game best played by two.
And thus for curvature we pine.
For curving lines may cross and criss
Plexgoogol times in ‘powered’ bliss
By graph’s progression intertwined.
Just so, let’s oscillate and wind,
Bask in each exponential kiss.
Fate we’ll initially accept;
T’assign set slopes she is quite apt.
Then in a coupdemathematique,
No longer rigidly oblique,
We’ll join graphs, loyally enwrapped.  
To parametrics we’ll convert
(Which, simplified, means we’ll avert
Equating Lineareté)
– ‘Tis lucky math is my forte –
With modes in quadrants shall we flirt.
Fate’s lines take not into account
Each others’ variables, but count
Themselves an independent set.
Let’s make them fluctuate just yet.
Mathematics’ logic we’ll surmount.
Our intersections will abound
Integral mutually, sound,
As comfort’s practice makes us one,
Our lives cohesive ‘neath the sun.
Give us this day our daily round.
