I suppose we all have a few of these:
Whenas in style my Julia dines
She says ‘My perfect valentine’s
The one who buys me fancy wines,
The kind that make a girl go ape
And pray to God she won’t escape
The liquefaction of the grape.’
And so, to have a bon, bon soir
And end up in my love’s boudoir,
I buy her pricey pinot noir.
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Whenas in dreams my Julia takes
My hand, my heart no longer breaks,
And though I’m sleeping there awakes
In me a sense that so-called dreams
Are more than merely that which seems
But that which is. The rest are schemes,
A bunch of lies that I’ve been fed.
But when I wake alone in bed
I lie there stunned I’ve been misled.
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