Pitter Patter, is that your heart or mine?
It can’t be mine, I don’t hear it when you’re around.
A hero, a villain, a tyrant, a thief,
why can’t you fit into a archetype darling?
You’re a dastardly man but a beautiful boy.
My mother asked me: who was that creature that I loved,
and I stood stone-still, open-mouthed, tongue-stuck.
Did your father ever ask after me?
That girl who made you dinner for three?
So what can I be in that curly-headed box?
A hero, a damsel, a sheep, a preacher,
the heart, the monster, the fantasy, but not a keeper?
The victim, the writhing, the philistine,
a goddess, a reaper, a concubine?
Pitter patter, is that your heart or mine?
I’ll get back to you on that one, in time.
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