Dorothy Parker

The Burned Child

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!
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