I suppose I could list the women whom the muse had used
Mauled the ones who used in return
And little ole’ me in the middle feeling the expanse of circumstance
The illusion of reality
The falsehood of possibility
Will I always be a bitter slave?
There is no quit, but only submit
And they’re all lies
Eyes, poetic brides
Tis the work of a fool
Bounded by the boundless description of hinder like tales of suffering.
A queen to pardon his mortal sins
To rest his head
Take to bed
And demand the same from him
To demand and be demanded
One enchanting to the peasant
But also dependable and welcome as spring
To a would be king.
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