It’s February the fourteenth again
And as I slowly rise up to my feet
I realize and make hasty retreat
Because I am the loneliest of men
And as, today, I take my solemn pen,
And hear loneliness’ imminent hoofbeat
I think about that woman of deceit
And how I’m better lone than with that hen.
True, I may feel depressed in my cold home
And think, with envy, about others’ love
But, when the cold day closes at its end,
I feel better off reading a great tome
Than having my heart flitter like a dove
For someone I know will make my heart rend
I would be appreciative of any advice you might offer.
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