Heart collectors

Steal my beats and rhythms
and stow them in your silver buckets,
chock full of suiters,
kept on ice
beside champagne and French white wine
to keep us all intoxicated,
falling at your feet,
for we are drunk, and have lost our own;
without our legs we cannot stand,
but without our hearts we cannot live,
so we leave them in your capable hands,
to prod and poke, stab or stroke,
however you desire,
‘cause open surgery costs a bomb,
and our love has since retired.

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