May I have a lover (in May would be fine),
adorn her with seventeen chrysanthemums
(nine in her hair, two-a-shoulder,
and six split into three on each wrist).
What man can bear himself for such time
(and in such times), now. Amidst this slum
epoch; each one of us, bolder
and emboldened by living we've missed.
I say, how dastardly this line
of work without a one
to share it, and much colder
without any to kiss.
A grand thing to hope for, and with speed!
One lover too many, a grand thing indeed!
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