You have been true, and I promiscuous, If those quaint words define the modern way, When one or many’s a matter of choice And why not seems as reasonable as why; So I’ve an intimate crowd who’ve never stayed Except in certain ghostly whispered thoughts, Until I found the snakey chorus loud, And wished I’d stopped at ten or so one-nights; While you, in your unmarried faithfulness, Have found one instrument a monotone, And thinking three years’ love a two years’ loss, Now want instead a symphony of men. But what is harsh in music is while I Am your one more, you’re not one less for me.