"
A friend of mine,
he sometimes said,
And though he tried to show the way,
They only care about his name
"Love is for the Fool,
"
A blind old man,
he always said
But of its' joys,
he sometimes spoke
And then it seemed,
he could see
"Life is for the Strong,
"
A travelling monk,
he told me once
But of the weak,
he never spoke
though their cries beat on his ears
I stood my gun in hand
The Swallow flew to meet his love
And as they touched,
I shot him down
But now it's me that can't fly.
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