Several Songs

I wrote a thousand sonnets ere I wrote
A single one for you; a thousand more
Will very likely from my fingers pour
After, for you, I sing my final note.
You did not teach me to sing, or emote,
Nor even to admire or adore,
My songs to you are but a mild encore
Of what has passed before out of my throat.
But mere priority or termination
Is not the point of anything I do;
To be first, last, or of longest duration
Is then to take too giant of a view.
You should not so discount the pure elation
That energized what I composed for you.