A rarity, that measure, which man doth know not
of friends, of caring, all balderdash and rot..
there is but one heart, that beateth in care
and that is his own, and that too very rare
For many moons, doth that man, refuse to believe
What common sense, and judgement do easily reveal
And then too, his grief, through his heart doth so cleave
His foolishness, now evident, nothing else does he feel
There might have been mountains, conquered in quest
But love none yet has enslaved, that is one Everest,
When push comes to shove, there is no real love
And his own skin is all a man looks to save, and how!
So forget all the roses, the ribbons and the cake
And believe cold hard reason, for your own little sake
Every yes has a reason, every no, even more so
And you’ll be a little liberated, more than you know…