I love a girl,
And it’s my choice, the doctor says,
That my heart is confused.
Like the racing horses,
Like the story of an African orator,
I said I’m sick
Yet none sees,
None comforts me,
The farther my heart went into her
The sicker I am.
I can’t live her without,
She takes away the oxygen around me,
She takes with her keys to my joy,
Alone in yonder land
She enjoys owning the good created in me.
Like the bedroom who is never good without the host
I’m become vain without my love,
Now have I known
That love is a sickness
Cured by getting more sick.