Am I a fool to trust that you are true

While knowing every soul has its free will?

Where human passion sways, as it may do,

And rude temptation lurks upon the hill?

The cowbird waits, unguarded nests to find,

Much as those times I’m absent from your heart,

And on swift wings leaves color-guards behind

To stain proud flags and vanish in the dark.

But of betrayal, what have I there to fear…

Seeing no hint of treason in your eye,

And of suspicion, should I find despair

In changing moods or frequent pseudo sighs?

Love’s trust becomes the snare by which we grieve—

And cuckolds fret on truths they half believe.