Work and turn towards me, my dear.
You're the shoulders, I'm the hips
who works by your side this parched field,
no longer Eden nor free ride.
Still, hope we still in Paradise.
Remember, you chose me to be your darling bride,
and you, in turn, guaranteed me fidelity forever.
Shall I, then, bury you unblemished or disgraced?
Or shall we both recoil upon the sad remembrance
of who bit the apple first and felt the sharpness enter?
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