©2000 by Little Rascal
This thing called love, it hurts too much.
Like a fine wine it draws you in
Daring you to rebuke its touch.
The first sip ~~ intoxicating
All is right and warm
You are safe from harm.
The second taste and the heat builds
Passion and intensity battle your wills.
By the third glass you've lost your direction.
There is a fierceness to make a connection
You know that you must try.
You are now parched for one last taste
But you find the bottle is dry.
In your moments of greed and selfishness
You have drained the vessel,
and now you cry.
For you must face reality,
And gather all your might.
The sweet nectar of love is gone
And your throat is dry and tight.
The bitter truth sweeps in with a chill
And you are left alone,
For the bottle is dry,
And love has run out,
And all against your will.
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