Ye olde internet.

[Brownlie]

Wither and whence came ye
Oh precious mineral?
Wherefore I ask have ye imbibed a fiery spume
in such a placid state of nature?
I pray you bear me in your steadfast passion.
For a matron fiend has pinioned me
in breast uplifted glory,
and as I gaze into the gullies of enameled pumice
My inner mansion crumbles by the nag
They're only rocks...

I enjoyed this, particularly:

Wherefore I ask have ye imbibed a fiery spume
in such a placid state of nature?

I'm finding enameled pumice a consistently odd and unpleasant image, I like it.

I am not the Taj Mahal,
a structure rife with adulation.
I'm no Italian frescoed wall,
just wood upon a stone foundation.
Still, when the angle is just right
and you ride by at perfect pace
I'll catch and throw you back the light
reflected by my rough-cut face.

Just rocks, humbug.

Your poem humbles me (I think some people say umble, I'm not sure if that's new or not).