Never tell me I can,
Nor the things of which I may,
But of all things of your lips,
Do leave a mark nowhere near a physical burnt red rose kisses.
Only which lead my mind scarred and baffled,
confusion sets in when all of your vocabulary and glossary of your attempts to give love that never ends.
And yes make me beg of your cup,
where it became B to double D,
I would like to F it yet you kept a loving shield of "No".
But on a whimpering statement
You did settle.
Too many times from you is a joke after joke.
That I am to ask of forgiveness for you and your
love that died the
moment it knew not of what I meant,
Only the things I am of service for you and all those;
Whom wanted none but a Butler out of me.
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