Most of the poems that I used to write
Were written for you once unwittingly.
I know that all of them were awfully trite
But they were unrequited poetry,
Which, though it may be very well-intentioned,
Wishing only good for its subject,
Is far too maudlin ever to be mentioned
Especially when, as you may suspect,
It's meant sincerely. So let it pass by
The triteness and the over-zealous verse,
And though, perhaps, I may still sit and sigh,
Please rest assured I will not make it worse
By codifying what was extempore;
You will not see these sonnets anymore.
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