What's it to be then—ego or love?
The perfect fit in which velvet glove?
And what is ego but love of a sort—
subtly enticing, so finely wrought—
beguiling, coaxing, caressing, cajoling,
stroking the aspirant's lofty goaling—
Machiavellian-smooth;
yet keenly wrapped up in a threadbare nap,
it slips through frayed fingers—ergo, love's lustrous gap!