I once knew this bastard
(How easily I judge)
who proclaimed Love
(How I hate the word the sentiment the feeling the confession)
to someone whose creativity complemented his
(She inspired him too, another muse, silly goose)
but guess what, despite all his oh-so-true feelings
(yeah, it got him a hard-on, that much was true)
his destination lay elsewhere, of that he was sure
(with hair grey, skin wrinkled - his old age home)
wedded to this faithful slave he was
(you know how it is, pati parameshwar, conceited bastard or not)
he’ll return to her, he said, his eyes brimming, love shining
(spineless parasite)
but for now, he told her, you’re my everything and my love is true.
(Rot in Hell)