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From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 29, 1915. By David.

I’d love to be sweet sleep, were you a dream;
I’d gladly be the milk, were you the cream;
I’d wish to be an oak, were you a vine;
Were you a lemon, I would be the rind;
Dark sorrow would I be, were you a sigh;
Were you the ointment, then me for the fly;
I’d be a waiter if you were the tips;
Were you a kiss, then mine should be the lips;
Were you the ocean, I would be its roar;
I’d be an apple, if you were the core;
Were you a pen, I then would be the ink;
I’d be a parching thirst, were you a drink;
Were you a needle, I would be the thread;
I’d be the butter if you were the bread;
Me Simple Simon, if you were the pie;
Were you a diamond, I would be the dye;
Or I would be a muff, were you the fur;
Were you a chestnut, I would be the burr;
If you were Wall Street, I would be New York;
I’d turn into a knife, were you a fork;
Were you the sunshine, I would be a flower;
H2O for mine, were you a shower;
Were you a drummer, I would be the drum;
And so it goes ad infinitum.
So all through life we’d never need to part,
But journey hand in hand, and heart to heart,
Though of all varied forms we find in life,
I’d rather be myself, were you my wife.

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