Anything but love is yours to have,
Yours to hold and cherish 'til you die,
Take my life, my money, memories,
Or anything you think would satisfy,
The loftiest of dreams you have for me,
But don't expect to share in my success,
In those of my achievements there may be,
Nor even in accomplishments you forced,
Through endless batteries of pious words,
As sure as your good judgment was the source,
I'll never but resent you and your lords.
And all those things that you would term 'success, '
As sure as your compassion was benign,
In all the deepest hours of distress,
Success will stand as failure; as its sign.
So you may have my labor and my sweat,
And you may have my wallet and my time,
But that's as much as you can hope to get,
For where once we were healthy and sublime,
You sold it for a judgment, now you see,
The perfect world you wantonly pursued,
Where your machine could labor perfectly,
Is one in which the engineers are shrewd,
But where the great unloved love nothing back,
And where the halls of fame are large but cold,
Where faults are strung up tight on that same rack,
Whereon is hung the thing you'll never hold.
So anything but love is yours my friend,
Just any possibility so wild,
And wonderful and bright and without end,
I am your tool, your servant and your child,
But I can never ever be the one,
That you once called true lover, friend and son.
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