I need a fair maiden 
whose hands heal wounds and that sore 
Not two, four or even ten; 
I'll choose one to walk through that door 

To come back to my den 
To delight me when I'm feeling poor 
To live inside this pigpen 
To unite us if we're both sure 

When May comes round again, 
Hands in the middle make up four 
That's when again I'll pen; 
Sands of time grow more and more.

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