What do you call a sonnet, that has turned out sour,
You want her to see in one way, but its not in your power.
It was meant to flatter her, even make her smile and blush,
But she has taken an exception, and sent it flying down the flush.
What do you call a song, that could not be sung,
No time for spouse or kids, busy climbing the rung.
It was a folly to think that from the top you could your heart cry,
And she would decipher it for a paean, and not detest or decry.
What do you call a story, that has never been told,
The courage shown in childhood, can make you plow through when old.
It is the story you sing daily - to soothe yourself to sleep,
Sometimes a hero, sometimes a sidekick, sometimes a wolf as sheep.
What do you call a novel, that is coming to an end,
Instead of mere words this time, let me flowers send!
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