What, when my intellect was too much,
And brash beauty too little?
And I seemed cool to all touch,
Made of paper and spittle
Like the wasp's nest that I am
And admit it now, I do,
And goodness how I own it too,
"They do not like green eggs and ham."
You've got the wrong end of the tale:
I'm caviar, champagne, and bread,
But I, alas, am not for sale,
And I give love freely from my head.
What, when my name is written in the stars,
Will you remember how you said I had it all
And still was not enough? Could you curse scars
That never felt a wound, and fall
From a tree you never climbed? You fool,
You wise fool, for your ignorant wisdom,
And your Fortune's shroud is still my chrysom,
Yet for my rising are you still the ghoul,
And ever will be. And still, live unhurt,
For how could you know disappointment
From one who you never gave appointment
And opportunity to commit such a curt
And curious crime? As how could you know,
Inert as you are, the blessings that could rain
On you, who are so averse to pain,
That you wouldn't risk letting Eden go?
How can you laud or regret,
That which you did never get?