We are frail
But could be stout
We are patient
But could be tired
We are deep
But could turn shallow
Rather true
But pick the fraud fellow.
Whoever we are
Are carved from jolts
Which heart embraces
And grabs then stitches.
But when the *****
Had too much dinge
And no more yarn
Left to sew the bits,
This marred love
Will become dust
For a weeping man
To succumb in scruple.