My heart is the can,
That people stop to kick,
It also is the killer,
With a mind so sick.
My heart is the dog,
That people slap and beat,
It also is the flower,
Shriveled in the heat.
My heart is the thing,
No one wants around,
The nasty little cockroach,
Crushed upon the ground.
If you had seen me fling,
This thing, still beating,
At your feet,
You would have let it lie,
To ***** in the street.