Breath is heavy; blood on my brow, sweat flows
Thy soulless servant wishes for a dream
Though thy grandiose; beauty seen by blind
Neither hath he thought himself quite worthy
Nor thrifty on thy grief and joy daily
But hold firm his love alone; an excuse
Quid pro quo; thy pride patiently pursues
Like Procrutes he wished to steal thy whole heart
And so he stands like the last warrior
Admires all thy perfect imperfection
Why did he give as little as Spanish treasure?
Why did he give as much as a church mouse?
You drew bliss from his replaceable state
Only to be nonplussed by equal fate
