Prodigies are a cinch to make your heartGallop like Secretariat around
That last turn at the Belmont—looks apart,
Perfection always winds up triple-crowned.
But it’s not like you have to be real deep
To love the loveable. Hell—love like that’s
Like dreaming—you can do it in your sleep.
What gives me coronary pitapats
Is when I know someone who’s flawed and real
And still commit my heart eternally,
Hoping that she’ll be deep enough to feel
True love in spite of what is false in me.
To love because is effortless and trite;
Love is more loving when we love despite.