when we are young we practice love
though we know not a whit thereof

each pang we suffer our heart askew
must be certain sign of love most true

each time our heart is cut and bruised
is a lesson taught of love misused

a stern instructor of teenage years
life keeps teaching through our tears

but pain and sorrow are love’s only school
we must attend if we would learn this rule

it’s not love itself which does us wrong
but the lying tongue and deceiving song

no love gone bad is not to blame
it’s a selfish heart to which love’s a game