Placing first a pound of flesh upon a golden scale
So you can tell me, “Love, when true, would offer more,”
And so, with edges dulling, do I choose how next to fail
Discounting how I’m growing sore
Because it’s love, and you implore
And after all, how could you ever in my agony so revel?

Then it’s just another pound, another pound, and yet
I carve away the parts of me that cause you pain
And then you say, “If this were love, your eyes would not be wet,
Nor would you ever seek to stain
My loving heart with words of blame
Nor would you cry because the blade I had to give has lost its bevel.”

Growing ever weaker, but the scale is ever still
And all you have to say is, “This is all I get?”
I cut again, but deeper, like you know I always will
Another pound of flesh is set
And though I feel the price is met
You say, “but this, I fear, would even be a pittance for the devil.”

And running out of flesh, perhaps I don’t know how to quit
Or maybe life has taught me love is sacrifice
And if I give enough then I’ll be owed a little bit
But still I see the growing price
And then I make another slice
So you can tell me once again, “If on your love, I can depend, why does the scale – with all your flesh – seem never level?”