Twice did our love see the roses of
St Valentines rising sun.
That which follows,
worse than the one foregone.
For we were never
the type,
to
obey.

The fourteenth day,
of that second month,
he came to me,
and I heard him say:
"My darling, for you I bestow a gift! -
the gift of irony
No gift at all."
He knew me,
and he knew
me
well.

O' then the second Valentines,
saw that this year,
I had a gift for him.
A gift he'd rather not hear.
A gift I'd rather not bear.
The gift to end
all
gifts.

Autumn blessed me,
with the deterioration of his memory.
And Winter cursed me,
with a heart of stone.
Spring breathed life,
into that which
I thought I'd
buried
alive.

And he's happy now.
He has another now.
And I'll be okay so long
as the sky remains blue,
and the setting sun leaves
the clouds
a rosy
hue.

Remove these photographs
from inside my skull.
Can't you see they're
making my heart too sore?
Take these rose-tinted glasses
from upon my eyes.
For I cannot bear
them

anymore.