My poems always rhyme, you know.
How I contrive to make them so
delightful that they thrill you, yo,
from crown of head to tip of toe.
And though they rhyme so prettily
with rhythm even as the sea
makes waves whose bubbling jubilee
convey my hopes and dreams for thee
they spoil quick and disappear
and make me long for yesteryear
when we were bosom buddies, dear,
and had great hopes and had no fear.
And so on—of all days—today—
Sham Holiday—you lead astray
a silly friend who wants to say
she loves you, in a tender way.
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