Nothing less than an emotional leech
Feeding my self with the blood and tears
Of those whom I lend an ear, and hand
Maybe a better choice would be of a Bar Keep
Serving ale, wine, frothing and fizz
Then the outcomes of such stories
Would be an intoxicated, forgetful town drunk
Let alone me, my verses have turned many
From joyous Overtures, to miserable sleep
Maybe I have become my love, not you, it's the feel
To torment the self only to come back at me
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