I’m keeping faith with the one I love,
But what is faith, and what is love?
For if my hand fits in a glove,
That does not make it mine.

I am remiss with love and gifts;
My intentions may sometimes miss.
So when I bestow upon you a kiss,
That does not make it love.

Sometimes I struggle with toil and trouble,
Forgetting no one lives in a bubble.
But I pick myself up from the rubble—
Which may not be my wish.

I like poetry; I have fake green eyes;
I’ve made myself over in a kind of disguise.
I know no one can see through my lies…
Which does not make me proud.