Love is a game, my dear,
that neither of us are much good
at playing. Your little tricks
and guile are too easily discerned:
mine are equally unsubtle.
Oh, what hopeless participants
we are in love’s great contest—
if this was a race we’d be disqualified
for dawdling.
And yet, my dear, who else
would put up with our incompetence,
our easy-to-see through trickery.
We have grown used to the game
and neither of us are fit for any other.
So let us stick to what we know
and continue to play the game –
after all, it helps to pass the time.
Bill Fitzsimons