My first dumb love poem

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My lover is kind.
He made me a salad.
He placed it before me most caringly
leaning in from the right and placing it dead center on my heart.
In it was the luck of every young woman
who had ever spoken to or even seen my dear lover.
He explained to me in detail, as only a gourmet chef would,
what was in the salad.
The base of the dressing was water that had dripped from the first star he saw one night,
and the salad itself was made of the fourth cloverleaf from
every shamrock in his garden.





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