I am not a romantic and talented bard
In Valentines not giving roses and card
But my love is flavourful like mustard
As sweet as caramel-flavoured custard
And I think I am just a lucky bastard
Everyone just think I am really a retard
But my brain didn't grow an inch of lard
I am writing poem, not getting bombard
Poems are memories that come in shards
So that my life will be moving on forward
Not living in shadows of past like a coward.
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