from squinting into the inter-light.
As my silver lamp droops, the bulb resists
and shines on a dream I had last night.
I saw the handsome lot of them,
all jealous and foolish and bright.
None took my pleasure, I kept it well hid,
buried underneath platonic blight.
Then a baby came 'round, we took her in,
for fear of her heart getting frostbite.
She grew fond of me, as I wept on her head;
never again would the world be such a fright.
One of ours, she's turned out to be
the most beautiful girl of the serenade night.
Now she's inches away, brushing her hair.
Does she know?
I think she might.
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