When by passion she is smitten
And you lead her to your bed,
When she’s purring like a kitten
As you stroke her precious head,
Don’t pretend what you call wooing
Has, however deep her trust,
Any substance in its doing
Other than to slake your lust.
When you’re holding in your fingers
Her fair hair or, soft and white,
The faint spectre of her lingers
When she’s vanished to the night,
Or at sunrise as you hold her
Through the early morning mist,
And she’s clinging to your shoulder
Quite unable to resist,
Don’t go thinking if you please her
When you make love in the dawn
The emotions that will seize her
Count for anything but scorn.
Take leave of your one and only,
Who could not love such as her?
And seek out the cold, the lonely,
The untouchable, the cur.
Take your ministry to others
Of another land and race,
Say you love them as your brothers
When they slap you in the face.
Give your charity to pagans,
Who will deal with you but sly,
Preach your gospel to the shamans
Who’ll spit venom in your eye.
Take your mission to the useless:
Tramps and winos on the street,
And though you can see it’s fruitless,
Never once admit defeat.
See the junkie foul and puking,
Pissing blood and coughing bile,
Who deserves naught but rebuking,
Could you care for one so vile?
Help him up and mark his docket,
Nurse him till he’s free from pain,
When he turns and picks your pocket,
Bite your lip and start again.
You’ll win no appreciation
From the dosser and the lout,
Nor will you receive salvation,
But that’s not what love’s about.
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