Within the book of wasted time
a section must exist
with chapters penned in perfect rhyme
of poets never kissed
by lady luck or fortune’s son,
the gender matters not,
of loves and favors never won,
of passions never wrought.
My chronicle would grace this page
my love, if not for you
as written by some useless sage
for all the world to view.
My dearest love, I here exalt
that I am out of print.
The presses, dear, were made to halt
by orders, heaven sent.
of loves and favors never won,
of passions never wrought.
My chronicle would grace this page
my love, if not for you
as written by some useless sage
for all the world to view.
My dearest love, I here exalt
that I am out of print.
The presses, dear, were made to halt
by orders, heaven sent.
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