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It’s lucky Shake­speare never knew
a lovely woman quite like you,
since even he, the Avon Bard,
might well have found the task too hard
of min­ing with his magic pen
the spell you cast on mor­tal men,
and fail­ing thus, he might have lost
the will to write, which could have cost
the world his Ham­let or his Lear.
I’m glad he didn’t know you, dear.

It’s lucky that Bob Dylan met
Miss Joan Baez, not you, my pet,
who gave him shel­ter from the storm
but never truly kept him warm,
or else the answer might have blown
not in the wind, but you alone,
and he’d have made a duller rhyme,
“You did not waste my pre­cious time,“
and all his songs would burst with cheer.
I’m glad he didn’t know you, dear.

It’s lucky that the road Frost took
did not afford him one good look
at you, or he’d have quit his pen
and joined the ranks of rhyme­less men
who all their lives would never know
the urge to lie down in the snow
or what it’s like to pick and pick
so many apples you grow sick.
You could have ruined a great career.
I’m glad he didn’t know you, dear.

You see? I truly think it’s best
that you met me, and not the rest,
since I have noth­ing on my plate
your beauty would adul­ter­ate,
and if it’s me, my love, you choose,
the world has noth­ing much to lose.
So for the sake of time­less art,
won’t you let me in your heart?
From wor­thy souls, you should stay clear.
I’m glad they do not know you, dear.