O' left to hang so low so long
At the corner of once sublime,
Until it donned a wrinkled cape
And made to home a street stop sign.
I will speak of it no longer
If indeed the worm must die,
But if it is to slowly wither
Not much more protest will I.
For what is love my dear dear,
Surely more than carnal thrusts,
An undying love for only thee
We're helpmates comparable you see.