There is a sickness in your heart
In which I think I cannot cure.
You pretend to be of angels
But hold a mind impure

You tighten the holds upon their necks
The noose attached to arm
and though they love you so
You intend to do them harm

Though some do not see
That thing deep down somewhere
And while most do not, I do
I behold the darkness there

In my kindest heart of hearts
I search for some spare pity
I found nothing for the thing inside you
That which is not pretty

It is now I think my dear
That I must leave you behind
I must abandon you here
Even though I'm kind