The Burned Child
Love has had his way with me.
This my heart is torn and maimed
Since he took his play with me.
Cruel well the bow-boy aimed,
Shot, and saw the feathered shaft
Dripping bright and bitter red.
He that shrugged his wings and laughed-
Better had he left me dead.
Sweet, why do you plead me, then,
Who have bled so sore of that?
Could I bear it once again? . . .
Drop a hat, dear, drop a hat!
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