Sometimes I think that this is all that counts
And all else is irrel'vant in the world
No money, love, or sex in large amounts
Can alter how these letters they are curled
Around the pen that lays them on the page
A builder building brick row after row
That stretch out in the distance for an age
Becoming hard as ice like snow on snow.
So all the pieces of my daily life
That jostle for a chance to steal my time
Yes, even you my ever loving wife,
Become through words more lasting and sublime.
So I jot out a sonnet every day,
And see them last as all else fades away
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