I wrote that your face was
The source of all light
But my maladroit fingers and
Two spastic thumbs
Bungled light into ‘blight’
In the draft, late at night
And hit ‘send’ for good measure
From this, no good comes
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I wrote that your face was
The source of all light
But my maladroit fingers and
Two spastic thumbs
Bungled light into ‘blight’
In the draft, late at night
And hit ‘send’ for good measure
From this, no good comes