or that I would disdain a tourniquet?
Out of the depths I cry, Lord, unto thee:
Let this thing pass from me -- but not just yet.
Who said that love is pleasure? Well, they lied.
It's nothing but blood, toil, tears, and sweat.
Myself I could not save, nor have I tried.
Someday it has to end -- but not just yet.
If this is love, who needs it? Not this boy.
And should I find myself again beset,
I'll muster all the force I can deploy,
put love to rout -- but not just yet.
I know I should grow up, calm down, forget,
and be more sensible -- but not just yet.
May 13, 1979
