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There's folly in my stubbornness, declining to accept that the step must come of calling down the curtain for a certain end to all this shilly-shallying ballyhoo, which masquerades as an affair. I should spare my pride from grovelling scenes when I plead the need for a final opportunity to woo your screwed up mind, in persistent hope that I'll find some final glimmer of tender reciprocation. My relationship with you is the luckless card I can't discard, after constant shuffles of the pack - racking my brains to devise (from a hand redealt) some winning combination from the dull digits.      It must be I'm a masochist at heart,      in bringing abject shame to such an art.