Love is not but a temped trot
Until you fall on your face and rot
Those who tend to get up again
Have surely yet to mend
For they start with that trot
And think certainly not
To think they will have a pick from that pot
Then the one they want is not the one they caught
The story then goes
Their happiness in woes
They step on each other’s toes
In the end, they reap what they sews.
By Pamela Mullins
Copyright © 2003 Pamela Mullins. All Rights Reserved.
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