I call it the “snare of the fowler”-
A dead fall whatever it’s called.
Baited by our own temptations-
Unwary, we’re easy enthralled.
Call it a madness, or magic-
We’re each victims to our desire.
Results all too often are tragic-
We’re drawn like a fool to the fire.
The equation is painfully simple-
Requiring one woman, one man...
The look in the eyes is the trigger,
Give’s lie to the ring on the hand.
Each woman at heart is a wanton-
Each man in his heart is a knave...
The fire in their heart burning hotly,
Illicit the pleasures they crave.
And yet we are bound by our customs
Till death do we part, by a band-
Forget what you see in the eyes, friend-
But take a close look at the hand.