That the heart is troubled by the heart that is troubled That is not your own heart’s troubles: the ecstasy doubled And the room beats full of hearts, overbubbled In the heat of the moment and the drama that’s cobbled Together by them, of real sorrows that aren’t theirs to share, But very much theirs to tear and wear and overstare, Because the blood cares only as much to care For the fizz of the moment, and it isn’t your hair That is being torn; it isn’t your paean that is being sung - It’s you caterwhauling it, as you will, lung and lung; And deranging the song, like ten cats being hung And their guts played alive, violins freshly strung… But forgive me, I tell you – this is the horror Of those who will stake in another girl’s drama. It’s not a piece of your pie, and it isn’t mine either; I just know what it’s like, so spare us the fever, And spare me the fiver, ‘cos I’ll dish you no more Than nothing and dagger looks: The heart still beats sore.