33

Day thirty-three; and she played me Plucked ev’ry note like on a fiddle And then proclaimed, “Just let me be!” And left me shocked at her riddles Week thirty-three; I still feel pain She always plagues my waking thoughts Yet only she receives the gain I suffer silently for naught Month thirty-three; I still love her I haven’t loved another one I had to let her go, though ‘twere The hardest thing I’ve ever done Year thirty-three; I have forgot I’ve lived my life in utter bliss But then I saw her, deep in thought As her husband gave her a kiss Lord Tennyson messed up the call I almost thought he’d not been tossed ‘Tis best to not have loved at all Than to have loved a friend and lost.