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Written on a cocktail napkin, pressed between the pages of Spike's poetry journal
[On the way home from New York, while aggressively avoiding talking about Dumage.]
They say that fire hurts you with its touch,
But she flickers so enticingly at night.
I know if I approach she'll be too much,
And yet still I sit and wonder if I might.
When first she flickered into my frozen heart,
I found her spark alluring, craved her heat.
I thought her burning beauty was a work of art
And listened for the sound of her heart beat.
But flame will burn and burn consuming everything in sight.
Its warmth may call you forth to actions rash.
But heed me as I warn you of it's vicious bite!
Or you may find your frozen heart has burned itself to ash.
They say that fire hurts you with its touch,
But she flickers so enticingly at night.
I know if I approach she'll be too much,
And yet still I sit and wonder if I might.
When first she flickered into my frozen heart,
I found her spark alluring, craved her heat.
I thought her burning beauty was a work of art
And listened for the sound of her heart beat.
But flame will burn and burn consuming everything in sight.
Its warmth may call you forth to actions rash.
But heed me as I warn you of it's vicious bite!
Or you may find your frozen heart has burned itself to ash.