I wish that I could write for you,
this poem, the least that I can do.
Impress you, how I wish I could,
no words are ever any good.
You might tell me that you don't mind,
my little rhymes, but you are kind
enough it seems to overlook
that. If I were to write a book,
I'd write forever of my wonder
at your most amusing blunder,
wishing my poor hand to take
in your affection, which mistake
you must bear the consequence of,
ill-penned poems to share a shy love.
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