A friend of mine, he sometimes said,
 And though he tried to show the way,
 They only care about his name.

"Love is for the Fool,"
 A blind old man, he always said.
 But of its' joys, he sometimes spoke
 And then it seemed, he could see.

"Life is for the Strong,"
 A travelling monk, he told me once
 But of the weak, he never spoke
 though their cries beat on his ears.

 I stood my gun in hand
 The Swallow flew to meet his love
 And as they touched, I shot him down
 But now it's me that can't fly