To write a bad poem and mean
It, in love, is something shameless
That tells a laughing at, a proverbial
Fit, that to reject is not to redress:
That to me is, no less than eating
Good food and liking it for its shape,
The mood that wanderers, bless’d and singular,
Take when they tell you frankly:
What’s good of leaving is coming home.
So let me be frank,
You still my love,
This still a poem.
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