November 17, 2003

More about love

My love runs by like a day in June,
    And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
    In the pathway or the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start
    Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart —
    And I wish somebody'd shoot him.
            – Dorothy Parker Posted by toby at November 17, 2003 08:11 PM
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