If only her islet in the sea
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hasn't faded to a distant dream;
a dream thats sprit has went
to a cement jungle's screams
for frolics on its absent sand.
But, maybe if Hamlets sigh's
could of ceased their gestic ways;
Indecisive ways I'll never forget,
Not sweat, nor tears cried
could of made me a decisive guy.
yet, only I loath those gimlet eyes,
but Mr Edgar Poe, and me
are known to love a piercing gin.
So my jaded peepers have not since
laid eyes on her beauty, or its likeness.