What does she see in me with those sweet eyes?
For I’m not more than but a beggar born;
What favored cerebrations could comprise
Her musings on my worth—thoughts not yet torn?
Perhaps she pities but my low degree,
A mongrel stray left on the street to fend;
And of her kindness, grants her grace to me,
Where I her interest but for guilt contend.
No—High compassion could not give her heart
To some sad wretch in need of charity,
Nor does her deep affection here comport
With action based in broad philanthropy.
I am quite sure she loves but me alone—
Or fortune blind has placed me on this throne!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.