It takes without consent,
That which it deems right,
Gnaws deeply with intent,
To write tomorrow’s content,
With an audacious delight,
Without forgetting the bait,
That lured it to that notch.
Though thought a bewitch,
It gets tight after every niche,
That exposes it to the fetch,
Of that life’s greatest patch,
Which predominates its bleach.
Wishes gets higher with each poach,
That if it can be exposed to a pinch,
It will forever hold its bruises,
Hide them under treasured cruises,
To avoid public disguises,
That can torment its poises,
And increase its tender pulses,
Without a spoil on choices,
To forever maintain the cupid pierces.
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