My love is not boundless,
(As some men profess theirs
to be,) like the infinite sea.
It's easily charted,
Circumnavigated,
And kept under close watch of me.

My love is not deep,
Like REM sleep,
With room for whimsy and play.
It's shallow and squalid,
With dream lurkers horrid,
That'll bite you if you turn away.

My love is not clean,
Like a fresh mountain stream.
It is muddy, complex, and impure.
Yet so strong and so rich
That when it hits your lips,
Be it bitter, you will surely want more.

Once pristine and unbounded,
'Twas on lovers squandered,
Who drank without thought to quench me.
Thus my love is rare,
Scarce without compare,
And this cupful I give to thee.