O what fool he is, he who dreams upon a makeshift pedestal,
Patched blankets wrapped around a dishevelled self.
And dreams he of love, puffy clouds and castles in the air.
Naive fantasies!
O poor fool who knows not love.
Romantic whisperings, epic soliloquys!
To whom you may ask?
His shadow, of course!
Construed as fairies within his muddled mind.
For he whose heart would break if he knew the truth of love,
Be rudely awaken, shockingly slapped!
By the grounded simplicity of it.
He who would not be loved,
For no girl would want a man who knows not her reality.
So there he sits, upon his makeshift pedestal,
Wrapped in illusionary gold.
A happy king of wonderland,
A fool of a lover who knows not love.
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