Endless Rue

Just once, I wish you wouldn't analyze
And spit on everything I try to do
As if it's done, somehow, to poke at you.
Your heart explodes in rough, abandoned cries
When I put on an engineer's disguise
And make things badly, but just think it through:
You claim your heart was sold, with endless rue,
But you reserve the right to criticize.

When I was two-and-fifty, I could stand
The endless aggravation when you rant
And strike at me, with this hard, sour descant
That overtakes the melody, the bland
Expressions of desire, written in sand.
Now I am three-and-fifty, and I can't.