The Song I Sing

The pages written in my book Are pages made of second looks They tell the days of happy sad And sometimes sprinkle crazy mad The game is played and often lost By those who fail to count the cost The dreams I have are often false And failed the chances come across The search for love bewilders me And often leads to poverty Incredible insanity, indubious integrity It always makes a fool of me is what I see It’s incomplete she makes of me She always makes a dunce of me Indiscreet to her degree Insatiable this thing I see We learn the truth at seventeen That love is often just a dream A hindrance and waste of time The author of an awful crime Laying claim to those we name Becomes a hopeless silly game Knights would strive and pawns would fall The Queen's last move would end it all To sing a song a serenade Write the poetry feelings play Hold the pillow while I lay Pretending solace while I crave The end begins to end it all The days we spend in love must fall And nights to come with melodies Of love and what it makes of me (To be sung to the song, "Seventeen's" music)