Well good evening dear Love
Hope I’m not taking too much time of yours
It’s curiosity that made me write to you.
So dear Love
Here’s the question number one
Is it true that you make butterflies, in people stomachs, fly?
In that case
It’s not a nice thing to do
Well, perhaps it’s just my mind.

Then I’ve seen
So many people crying
That they’re dying
Because they were loving
Such a torture it must be
No peace of mind.
Who will set them free?

Than someone said,
The pleasant part of love
Is much too short.
It’s like acting in a play
When you’re being someone else,
Happy with no such thing as someones replace.
But then love throws you off the stage
And you hit your prideful face.

What an awful thing you, Love, turn out to be,
You can kill with no remorse.
But, oh well, I guess we’ll be
Bond together close
Till my last day,
’Cause I’m the cruelest masochist!
I’ll enjoy this game…