By immeasurable lengths and numbers
Of great strides, we labor vainly
To overcome a lack of companionship.
So that our ennui may be reduced by nips
And small bits, but all banally 
Do we make our efforts.  But in slumbers
Do we find our shapely visitors happily.

For there friends are true, for ideally
Have they been crafted; from our fiction
Based wholly on our selfish desires
Their angelic voices resound as from lyres
And their only words are our own diction
And their aptitude for empathy is - not steely
As with the callous others - perfect.

But for most, to actually detect
Such a being true on earth
Is not common, nor advisable;
For such a person is offendable,
For how could we lowly afford mirth
With such a sweet person, for once met
Would soon turn sour from neglect.

[We search always even yet;] But always do we search for yet
[For] No one knows if they exist
And never selflessly do we wait
And think that maybe it is fate
To remain separate and wanton of blessed
Friendship, for selfishly we already met
And did not keep our bargain.

Friends have with us friendship lain
But as with any road, without constant
Repair the bumps became too
Great, and eventually both then shoo
And the parting suddenly congruent
And amiable - lend to lonely pain.
For a foundation that was sturdy yet

Is left for ruin, and we let
[Our friend,] our path together divide;
And again we continue our quest
For that perfect friend lest
We remain lonely, yet they hide
Not - for we already have met.
We worked so hard to find

Our friendship dear, and yet kind
We forgot to be and lost
What should have been ours;
[Friend,] lent from time, ne'er cower
We at our separation, ne'er a cost
Was so dear, nor so precious a find 
Have we allowed to slip through our fingers.