World's Oldest Profession

And if you made me wonder

Though frankly I hadn't till now

What spell you laid me under

Well, you must have learned it somehow

And if I had to guess

What line of work you were trained in

Where you picked up this skill set

I would not call it discipline

Dear, you were a doctor

Splicing your photographs

Stitching your monster

Well, I just had to laugh

Your blueprint was laudable

Your theory, all well and smart

But two souls, impossible

Conjoined at the very heart

"Well, it's just a hunch of mine

Merely hypothesis

A joke with no punchline

No progress and no promises

And that is all that science is"

Dear, you were an artist

Sketching your love for me

God, it was flawless

It was your masterpiece

Your focus so dutiful

Your stroke so deliberate

And like you, more beautiful

Than ever was its subject

But it's just a portrait

Smudges and shavings

You don't have to restore it

If you don't think it's worth saving

But if it's meant for the fire, then don't keep the fire waiting

And if you made me suffer

Well, it isn't all that odd

Some things one expects from a lover

A criminal, or god

But there's some advantage

Harsh as the judgment is

To that knave who can manage

To finish his sentences

And speak in a tongue I can hear

And brandish for whetting my knife

You don't bring your face so near

Unless it's to threaten my life

And that is my professional advice