Antiochus

Antoichus loved a woman, way back in ancient Greece.
The woman was a beauty and her name was Berenice.
He was a king, and here's the thing,
He could have married anyone.
He wanted Berenice.

Their friendship grew in Palestine, at first it was enough.
Antiochus felt for Berenice, she felt for him
but Berenice she knew that this new feeling
was was fond but not in love.
Antiochus, he had a little trouble dealing
with a woman who was more, much more
to him than any woman quite before.

Perhaps he should have told her, and there was once he did.
He told her that he knew that this new feeling
was more, so much more than what he ever had before.
She hid.

So he shut his mouth and didn't speak no more
about the love that smothered anything before,
And they slipped into the phase, that terribubble phase,
where friends come first. And oh my days,
did poor Antiochus hate each minute that his Berenice
wasn't his but passed from kiss to kiss with other men.
But get this, she came to him with man troubles,
with sighs and tears and rants and weary confusion:
he said this, what does that mean?
He said that, what does that mean?
Loves me? Loves me not?
Thinls I'm ugly? Thinks I'm hot?
And desperate she clung to his robe,
whilst inside he never gave up hope.

You may feel cheated, as this tale, it has no end.
He loved her forever; they were never more than friends.
I wonder if he'd told her, whether she would take him in,
like a puppy on the pavement with a love endearing grin.
So there's the story, siyanora, das vidanya, peace.
I have been your Antiochus, you have been my Berenice.