Know not I why I desire,
Angry eyes and angry lips.
Not red as rose petals in fire,
But redder are her fingertips.
And though her fingers are flipped,
And her feelings much confused,
Although perpetually she is tripped,
And her arms are a'bruised,
Though all these things, I love her as true,
As winter is cold,
As grass loves the dew,
And as much as a grandfather has aged old.
But our love is not fairly shared,
And though ready for love or pain,
Though her muscles are prepaired,
Her real craving's for heroin and ...