Love is a form of self hatred we usually drunkly impose upon ourselves,
Condemn one's self to a "loved" one, and seal it with wedding bells.
We forever despise our loss of freedom, and consequently the "loved" one too,
Iconoclastic, childish and naive, but hell, I can have my point of view.

Perhaps we confuse love, when we can relate to somebody better anyone else,
For it is understandable that we could endure there company, better than somebody else.
From past days we still have marriage, but it was only there so we could breed,
And damn, we've now got labs and hospitals, or even lusty immorality to pass on our seed.

Companionship love turns into, but only if luck is on your side,
And if not bitter hatred, or even deadly homicide.
So forgive me darling for turning cold,
But if they found your body in my basement what stories would be told.