Behold!
It's not cold.
Defeating winter,
Spring sends me love-letter.
Don't I need blue bird any more?
No, no, this heart he tore.
O poet, you are a liar,
You are a self-admirer.
You only like to hurt,
That's a long chart.
You are playing love-game,
Constantly hankering after fame.
Oh no! Hear me,
All the time I feel it's he.
Then, why are you away?
It's my strategy not to say.