Is It Poetry
If jealousy could speak to me.
I would not steal her gaze.
Around the dale and up each hill.
Each field where I count sheep.
I knew him not but he knew me.
And money is the root.
And bankers have much more than me.
Each campaign without cause.
Around the earth he has been.
His bane is each our curse.
The doctor knows that it is wrong.
And sweet revenge to me,
is knowing both will go insane.
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