Oh what a pernicious thorn in the side of my delicate rose embedded;
What snide, narcissistic devil hath burdened me with such disgrace and mortification;
To not even utter a word of salutation or care represents thou true nature;
A harlot, a hustler, a fallen angel;
In mine eyes thou can do no wrong but to wrong me thus;
A glance of recognition, of knowing eyes, would satisfy my numbing breath;
But thou ne'er grant me such advantage;
To look down on a commoner from your opulent, mountain-high throne;
Well, I bid you, good king, bereave me here and spare me the pain of your ignorance and discomposure;
Mine is an existence dedicated not to you nor your derisive consorts who are yet to show me kindness;
I am blameworthy, and only I;
The knowledge of your notoriety left me as you grabbed me closer and held an embrace so sweet that I've dreamt of it hereafter in such scintillating manner;
Your kind face doth haunt my sleep as I think of your foul treatment, how could you regret something you desired so?
For shame, my love, hie thee to hell, a place where you belong.
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