I could tell you about the souls that I borrow,
the words that I swallow,
but that is my own sorrow.
Let's stick to me,
because after all these years you still do not see;
that what you have got is really me.
Last night I wrote you a poem,
about how lovely you looked in that new gown.
You returned me a frown.
You told me ":Let's talk about you for a change."
My writings just don't seem to do.
But what can I tell you?
I thought you already knew,
your dear Edward, a writer that's true.
Just listen, to these words that I brew.
There is not more to me, then there is to you.