Count


Accounting for my loss of reason
Tell me, is this true?
A willing bird will whistle tunes
To please the birds in season

Of which, of course, spring time does course
through blackened veins of winter
And all the lovers, stale with white
Will waken with love's force

So sing to you, this hearty tune
of passion, lust, and love
About your window, steal the night
And in her eyes we'll bloom

Spring is sour with sweet scents
of blossoming, blooming things
All of which I send to you
Through love's white, willful fence.

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