Don't speak to me of future for it has a foreign sound.
Don't speak to me in rhythm for my heart will climb these mountains, then plummet to the hard ground.
Don't look me straight in the eye, nor touch the freckle above my lip.
This heart of mine swings in a hammock, and I don't know if these ties will stick.
It sways back and forth, twisting a trapped fish in a net.
Heart pumping faster and faster, then dying out as the sun sets.
So if it's a fisherman's song you sing, or a hunters tune you hum....
Don't stalk this prey my friend
For the story always has a unsatisfying end.
If you catch me in your nets, or pierce me with your lead,
You will have to snap a picture and throw me back in instead.
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