My bowels tell me The time is almost come, When once more I shall go To pick her up, And we shall have our date. That full, queasy tightness In my gut Warns me the smell Of her perfume is nigh, That her laugh is but Moments hence. I fancy myself a bomber pilot, An astronaut, or A surgeon about to begin A delicate operation-- Not someone on my way To see a girl Whom I profess to love. What do I fear? Why do my innards Boil and burn within me? She is flesh and blood, The same as I. She even says she loves me. I say I love her, too; Do I? Do I really? Is love a case of The running trots? Hardly! Something is wrong, Wrong with me, with her, Wrong with all the world. I am afraid, and I am Afraid to be afraid. But here is her street, Her house, her door; I ring the bell And stand alone, Desperately dissolving The lump which clogs My pulsing throat. She comes, and we Begin again our game of love, While my stomach Churns its fearful way.
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