What is there to love, except,
some words of wit, cadence of praise
in bountiful lores of delicious taste,
a beguiling line of face called smile
and thunderous call called words
blood flowing like ink of life
writing stories of endless pain and plight
and cute ears that listens to mine,
and sweet sight called gaze of eyes
that cries and begets my lies
every single line, every single time.
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