These Hartless Hinds

The other day – what was it now? –
I went to town to buy my heart,
Since it was sitting there, on sale,
While love had fallen quite apart.

Well, as you know, they sell these things
To those who need them, if you earn
Enough to buy some favour from
The god whose arrows make you burn.

The lady wished to die; she wished to go
To Paris, where the winter’s rough winds blow.

Enshrined inside the Sacré-Coeur
It was, but mine nevertheless:
It looked so much like other ones
That never bothered to confess.

But I would have you soon enough,
If Superego took my face
And pasted it in Cheshire form
All over flesh and marketplace.

The lady wished to die; she wished to go
To Paris, where the winter’s rough winds blow.

Tomorrow I would have my prize:
I just needed to toe the line
And play it smart. But then I found
Your heart was decoyed, just like mine.

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