In each man doth cupid sits poised,
stringing his bow, singing, though inaudible his voice.
For long ago was his body done in,
now flies he in spirit, name's now charlatan.
But in each man's mind, his memory, his soul,
sleeps all man's past, truth's n' dreams in full.
So, Cupid sits inside, yearning to release
the waves of the arrows he's kept.
Aflame to penetrate the skin of virgin women,
to pierce right through their tight narrow clefts.
This, is love.
This is love.
