You tell me you’re no beauty queen.
You say I must be blind.
You’d rather somethings go unseen
And hope that I don’t mind.
But you know what you do to me,
If not you should, my dear.
I’m wanting you – that’s plain to see –
Though why you’re still not clear.
You won’t believe you are the cause,
As if you ever could.
You speak to me about your flaws,
While I’m here getting wood!
by J.S. Black