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(The third and last of the pseudo-lovesongs) There is no guile in your smile Your eyes portray your love No trace of malice on your face Your voice a soft-songed dove There is no guile in your smile Your arms are all encasing Your warmth as if a summer’s day Your love is all embracing There is no guile in your smile Your giggle, tinkling bells Your touch as tender as the breeze Your movement… BLOODY HELL… ! There is no guile in your smile As you plunge a carving knife ruthlessly into my chest. THAT, I hear you say, is for not meaning a word of it. |