My thoughts are my letters,
That never get sent, sir;
My thoughts are my letters
That never get done.

I mean to write letters —
But some are much better;
I mean to write letters,
But they’re never quite done.

They’re there in my mind, sir:
My kindest of letters;
They’re there in my mind, sir,
But what can be done?

Best left to their betters,
These thrice-cursed letters;
Best left to their betters,
For I am quite done.

Your Little Fool

Bear with me,
Watch me patiently:
Try to read my story,
Though I know I am a fool.

There are times I’ll say
More than ought to cross your way,
And then there’s times I’ll say
Almost nothing at all.

And if you try to stay,
It might be me who turns away;
Mad with the fear I might not see the day,
I verge so nearly upon cruel.

But if you try to see,
And accept even the worst of me,
I don’t think I could be anything
But your lucky little fool.


If you have nothing nice to say,
Say nothing at all.
…Until you’re badgered again and again
To be the little princess, the doll:

Then, you have to speak —
But never of what matters;
And listen patiently to everything,
But never offer answers.

‘Cause who needs those, really?
We each make up our own.
And who cares, really,
If it even hits home?

Like everything else,
It’s just… good enough.
And if you’re not content:
Well — tough.