And shall not care when we have lain together;
What is sorry? A round mouth shaping air—
Thimbles of air. Well, don’t just stand and stare!
Act your age. Untie this bloody tether.
I shall be sorry, though I don’t much care
To know you cannot care. But I can bear,
This once, a love as fickle as the weather.
What is a promise? More mouths shaping air.
Hurry, for God’s sake. Lead me to a lair,
Beat me black and blue with flesh or leather.
I shall be sorry, but I do not care.
Why should I care when there is nothing there?
The whips of love are lighter than a feather;
What is sorry? A round mouth sobbing air—
A busy thimble—sewing what we tear
From fumbled lives. I cannot tell you whether
I shall be sorry. But I do not care.
What is sorry? A round mouth shaping air.
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