I am not in love with you.
But I am gravely
(And rather ungainly)
In like with you.
You told me you were
Smitten with me.
Of all things, smitten.
I had never been so flattered.
You played me a song:
"Baby, baby, baby,
Won't you be my girl?"
The day I became yours,
And you, mine.
You played me a song:
"Dream a little
Dream of me,"
And I knew my sleep
Would be haunted.
You played me a song:
"There is nothing for me
But to love you
And the way you look tonight,"
And I knew
I needed help.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
I am not in love with you.
But I am gravely
(And rather ungainly)
In like with you.
You told me you were
Smitten with me.
Of all things, smitten.
I had never been so flattered.
You played me a song:
"Baby, baby, baby,
Won't you be my girl?"
The day I became yours,
And you, mine.
You played me a song:
"Dream a little
Dream of me,"
And I knew my sleep
Would be haunted.
You played me a song:
"There is nothing for me
But to love you
And the way you look tonight,"
And I knew
I needed help.
I despise the man this poem was written for.
