The Poet and the Player
The poet met the player in summer
When the days are long and the roses bloom
She rhymed the word summer with lover
And he smiled as his strings he tuned
The poet loved the player in autumn
When the trees turn as golden as sunbeams
And the player strummed and sang of freedom
And the poet compared him to a dream
The poet missed the player in winter
When distances seem to grow with the cold
There's much merit in words, but cold fingers
Do so beg for a lover's hand to hold
But the poet gave the player her heart
And that is the way the sweetest songs start
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