The poet's good at pretending,
Such a master of the art
He even manages to pretend
The pain he really feels is pain
And those who read his written words
Feel, as they read of pain
Not the two kinds that were his
But only the kind that's not theirs.
And so around its little track,
To entertain the mind,
Runs that clockwork train of ours,
The thing we call the heart.