Why do you do the things you've done? And how dumb would you have to be, To do them again like I know you're going to And if you're the poet you say you are and beauty's in everything you see, Then how can love exist in a world run by people like you? 'Cause when there's suffering, you're there From southern trees, you hang them in the air The world screams out in agony, you don't care But should the shit hit the fan, I should pray you will not be spared Fuck you! You took a heart with so much room for love, And filled it with hatred and rage, 'Til there was nothing left but for it to shrivel up and die People will tell you that if you don't love your neighbor, then you don't love God, But no god of mine would put light in such unrighteous eyes Now the way we hold each other so tight, Would look more like a noose if held up to the light, Because we betray each other in dreams every night Now let's never speak of it again, all right?
(Even now I curse the day and yet, I think, Few come within the compass of my curse, Wherein I did not some notorious ill, As kill a man, or else devise his death, Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it, Accuse some innocent and forswear myself, Set deadly enmity between two friends, Make poor men's cattle break their necks; Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night, And bid the owners quench them with their tears. Oft have I digged up dead men from their graves, And set them upright at their dear friends doors, Even when their sorrows almost were forgot; And on their skins, as on the bark of trees, Have with my knife carved in Roman letters, "Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead." Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a fly, And nothing grieves me heartily indeed, But that I cannot do ten thousand more.) -----------------------------------------------------------
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