Femme Fatale
Love, that thief of reason,Picked the pockets of my dream,I, ignorant of the season,Followed coatless in her stream. Someone naively sang: lovingIs not a science but an art.But there was little brushing When she slowly sliced my heart. Oh the sweet poison of her kissNumbs the mind and kills the willTo shed such ignorant hope of bliss.Despite it all, I love her still.