You prayed so hard while we made love
but love did not came from above,
it is a trade, in bed it’s made
as far as you cared anyway then.
The moves, the moaning and the end
an arcade of some bodies bent
a violent action following erection.
To you that was what made the trade.
You came and thought that love was made,
you called it: heavens satisfaction.
Your love was not sent from above
as you would throw me down to earth
and made this trade an act of dirt.
How could you call this making love
when you wanted to pay me off
the truth was more than you could bear
You left in tears and went somewhere
you had enough, I didn’t follow.
The trade of making love is just an art of sorrow.