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I know nothing of ballads
nor rhymes or rhythm
to sing a note
or follow a tune
of music and musings
are rare and few
I know nothing of the moon
nor the tides to pull
heartstrings a few
I know not my right foot from left
and of dancing
akin to drunkenness
of romance and gentlemen’s way
I know not what is wooing
or how to even do it
but dear
all I know is
I cannot go a day
without greeting you
without thinking how happy you’d be making
with just by being you.
I know not of ballads,
nor the power of pretty flowers.
My dear all I know
that the day is fairly bare without just a simple glimpse of you.
I know not how to sing to you.