The Burned Child

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Love has had his way with me.
 This my heart is torn and maimed
Since he took his play with me.
 Cruel well the bow-boy aimed,

Shot, and saw the feathered shaft
 Dripping bright and bitter red.
He that shrugged his wings and laughed-
 Better had he left me dead.

Sweet, why do you plead me, then,
 Who have bled so sore of that?
Could I bear it once again? . . .
 Drop a hat, dear, drop a hat!

© Dorothy Parker