Eight of November, two thousand and nine

Forty five minutes late on the clock of mine

First day of class from South to main line

Master degree is to weave a lonely vine

It was one and only thee who run in my mind

Sitting on a class chair is a cruel remind

Never expect a vandal shall lead me to find

Words of hurting seemed to kill my shine

Yes, it’s true I will never be loved.

Not more than a peanut butter on the rob

Yesterday or today nor tomorrow’s knob

Not even on my birthday of love’s heartthrob

You will never love me more than a peanut butter

Though my love stuns more than a star glitter

Wishing three to have all God life’s offer

For thy so worthy, so perfect to spend a supper

I will never love you more than a peanut butter

I will never break you though you’re bitter

It’s not that I love thee; it’s not that I care

I’m just being me, who beg ways of elsewhere.