Why was there a second chance,
When you yourself do believe:
The deceiver’s heart
Beats but to deceive?
When has the scorpion
Changed enough as a friend,
That the frog who carries him on his back
May just get to see a different end?
More fool you, fool, fool you,
Who knows change in essence
Is but a mere adaptation
Of just an overt difference.
Then how do you know?
And how do you feel?
If only you could stop your heart,
Or rather, squash it with your heel.
Still, this is mere rhetoric;
And your world is delusion;
So the only sane thing to do
Is be a god of illusion.
What do I write or say and to whom?
As the world, you, too, remain the same.
If only you could adapt, dear fool,
To cruel rules of this callous game.