There was a time when I was weak minded,
That if a man could dazzle me,
With everything that Shakespeare said before him,
I’d give him a piece of my heart,
Letting it go as if it would come back to me in time.

Then, once my thoughts matured,
Even though Poe and Bill were my inspiration,
I would only lie with a man,
If he had brown eyes,
And read my poetry, too.

As all of that goes, he is still the only one,
That held that last piece and made it grow,
He happens to be the only one,
That I can write about—
The only one that douses himself in my words.