My love is like a dead, dead rose
That's munched up by a loon.
My love is like a dour lament
That's sung all out of tune.
As fit art thou, my giddy dame,
Oh so nauseous am I,
But I will love you just the same
And laugh until I cry.
I'll laugh until I cry, dear foe,
And rest in your bad books,
And I will love you still although
You shoot me evil looks.