A flight of fancy never taken;
ne'er a mission been forsaken...
Thou doth not love me and I ask why,
but I know another hath caught your eye.
But she knows not of your little whims,
o'er your life she's only skimmed.
She fascinates you, so why can't I?
She's Queen of the World, I but die.
A God of Death I am as such;
she'll never know so much.
Now will you if you keep such look
o'er her life to replace your's she took,
yet I see you and the way you act,
while she is but a master of tact.
I know I have not all her charms,
but I want more to be in his arms.

Oh, Queen, my queen, can you not see
that he is better suit for me?
Obsession and obsession doth not make love,
though hate to love may to hate's love rove.
Must I beseech thee that thou do forget
of the heave he gives your bosom get?
Forgive me but what I say and do
to try to take him away from you.
I dare not guess of what your cause,
but how can you not see his flaws?
He is but a soldier, perfect as possible,
breaks every bone, yet skips on the hospital.
Perfect poetry in motion, every muscle,
every inch of skin, ready for skirmish or tussle.
Oh, my queen, I do entreat that thou forget him so.
Give me patience, time, his willing mind, then I'll leave you go.

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