There's No Prescription To Your Doom
M
Mark Heathcote
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She's a malady a physical illness.
You just can't cure.
There's no prescription for your doom.
Whatever you do, she'll still love you.
She's a malaise without surprise.
Your lives together are a conundrum.
But her eyes beguile you.
Woe betides you if she leaves you.
She's got a disorder with beguiling eyes.
She's a harbour in which no one spies.
Where a dozen shipwrecks lie
She's a sickness, the scurvy with beautiful
Blue contemptible eyes
She's a radiant siren.
'Won't anyone save you? '
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