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Ha, HA, Ha, HA.

Do you want this back?

Or should I keep it in my sack.

Or should I take this fickle thing,

that which once would dance and sing.

And take its parts one by one,

And burn them as if they touched the sun.

Or better yet, I have another plan,

Let me fry it in a pan.

Or should I but give it back,

Give that which you have a lack.

Ha, did you expect such pity?

And leave you be to sing a ditty.

Such pity I have not for you,

Through more pain I must put you through.

You see my cold, lifeless little man,

One who can barely stand?

This you did give to me freely.



Without thought.

Without a care for such things I could do to it.



Without these things you did give this to me,

And now only in the end you see.

What happens to this is not my fault,

For I know not that I harm it.

If I did, surly I would put it too a halt,

For it is you that causes this empty pit.