You know that I'm no good for you, of course;
I try my best, but I could hardly be
A compiler of good, much less a source.
Instead I suck the good from you to me,
And take unjustly what I can't produce.
I am a parasite upon your good,
And you accept my playing fast and loose
With what belongs to you. I wish I could
Know why you do - I know it's love, but that
Hardly explains its own base, root, or cause.
Sometimes this makes me feel an utter prat
More often, it just simply overawes.
But though I know you must know how I am
I'm grateful you don't seem to give a damn.
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