How imaginative and fanciful,
How young and lovely,
Felt she jealous of,
Envying her
And in a fit rage, unsaid and unexpressed,
Which but felt I on marking her mood,
Left she the place
To return again,
But came she not back again
And I waited and waited for her
But turned she not up, my ladylove.
And when returned I back, talked she snot,
Came she again,
Powdered and creamed to ask,
Am I not so cute and beautiful,
Am I not looking excellent?
You man, why do you go changing so often,
This time dancing with some
While on the other dancing with another girl,
Is this called love,
Is it love,
Saying, I love you
And forgetting it the next time?
When praised I the beauty of her, the girl standing next to me,
Said she not,
Just took to the words,
Left the place under the pretext of
And returned not back
To hear it
That I like her, I love her.
But when returned I back to, saw I the theatre artiste
Dressing up, making up
To turn up and question me in disbelief
As had been nervous to ask me innocently,
If do I really love and like her,
If I really love her,
If I shall in love with her? .

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