The wee hours of the day—
Start to tick away,
And the shush of the early morning buzz—
Is replaced with a rumble tumble of the city fuzz
The fire starts to burn low,
My pen no longer writes slow,
The knife turns dull,
And my poetry is no longer full,
Red has gone pale,
Your sweetness now stale,
And like everything shall,
And like everything will,
Romance has gone ill.

CMT