I am enamored.
Oh that I could speak more plainly,
but I am plain—me!
Next to your jests and merriment,
my tongue retards
and I speak monosyllabically.
Your attentions are so cruel,
with whispers of rapt adoration,
but it is not me you pine for;
As quickly as your praise is uttered,
you turn to another.
It’s she who warms the bed of your heart.
Yet, I remain enamored on thee.
Perhaps I’ll wake on the morrow
and find you are an ass,
and it’s an ass you will have made of me.

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