The heart is a scotch egg with ache; 
Each beat is sackcloth and ashes. 
Each line is scrappy; 
Each word is a scowl. 
Promises were left broken like a scroll.

A good man waits, but his trust was shattered. 
From the well of salvation, 
His faith in love was bruised and his hope was tattered. 
The blanket was too narrow to wrap around him.

He's just a simpleton in this sea of melancholy, 
A slew of pain in Lusaka's sloshed night. 
Shut the door behind him. 
Wounds slowly heal. 
Set the table with small talk about love. 
He cries bitterly; 
He is cloaked in black with sorrow. 
Tears fall, 
But he cannot kill pain at all.