The eavse, no doubt YWhould never do A mokeover ‘Without a shoe To dance into ‘The space where she Cast the spell sOIe at least he And a mantle, to display Coward, underneath aveag The Lion, be could not he Like a tion....well, mayhe A mon of tin A heart of snow A toueh of oil A crimson flow Zo places where The heart would di And no one would sonctify Zfotiee incondescence, pure Ot, at least..uhe wasn’t sure Making time cure was wovth the wait suCJe would time make love @ new gate Vithere 0 witch would ever be Lofty as hell Jo piety Something to rust his tin face, in the place ‘VWhhere be sat Zfnder the spell Con a heart pump (ove, again? Or could she ever taste of a tree ‘With feuit of being sweet And not tive in colors, dreary? Wht, ‘There was a spell ‘YWhhen broken, be would tell Of a love he found to be Pouce, unkeigned Wo spot of infidelity, Wor blomishing the time Salling for sin-sick harlotey Wor believe a of a love to make A heaet to live Ja give and take Rut not break suand ache Because he would mistake A love...for a spell?