The lantern blew out on a lonely-o
night too long in the Frigidairey-o
Crusty and musty, air so dusty-o,
hope lay cold in the ether-o.
He tried to tell her no. So cool-io,
words blew out in smoke-o.
But what kind of God brings beauty-o
to one so worthless, or so he felt-sio.
The dark grey in the room, all mold-io,
one word wrong brings it all to ruin-o.
Then he sets a river loose, unbending-o,
and wakes up as she listens-so,
"You should have told me, petit chou.
Talk more. Tell more. I'm in love with you."
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