I've never penned a perfect poem,
Never happy with results.
For every one is uninspired,
Always with some gaping fault.

But here I've set to work to write
(Or type, as poets seldom should)
The poem I have never written,
Never cared, or never could.

But oh! Alas! My pen has written
All the way to stanza three,
And nowhere in those careful couplets
Have I declared my care for thee!

It goes without my saying so
That I'm no master with a pen,
But even those with lesser tools
Can write, and tie their thoughts within.

But I have neither told you how
Your presence gives me will to smile,
Or how, with you, I've never spent
A second that was not worthwhile.

But oh! Alas! These simple words
Are maybe badly cut and bruised,
But woven through them, by my pen,
Is all the care I have for you.