Cut and sold, costed and old,
touch never sweetened,
touch never to bare.
Painted reactions ran fickle of significance,
painted sorrows resented to vain and blank stares.

Proceed, proceed, my dear,
the wrong is never as it seems in an affair;
never black, blue, nor purple.
But proceed to the concealed air,
but proceed to the loss of a prevailing simper.
Purely flee from such unsuspected,
where the finding of such dear had disappeared.