I write poems about beauty ,
Your name is on every line.
And how your pretty little fingers ,
Were made to perfectly fit into mine.
I write songs about perfection ,
Your name echoes all through.
And how this hellish life on earth ,
Seems so heavenly with you.
I try to form perfect rhymes,
But to what mere words can I rhyme thee?
For twelve lines are too few to put into words,
How much you mean to me…How much you mean to me.
The Merchant of Venice
One half of me is yours, the other half yours
Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,
And so all yours.