Quit yore cryin, Heart.
Your sulky lips,
Precocious pout,
Champaign taste
And here yore pockets
Are a hangin out.
Get on you're bike
And ride south,
Or I'll give you something
To cry about.

Smile and be happy,
You orphan thing,
For you have chambers,
And you have strings,
And you have a brain,
If you'd think to use it,
Cause with chambers and strings,
You could have music.

And if you have music,
Then you're a king,
And god is your audience.
Everything
Is already yours,
So sing, Heart,
Sing,
And be very happy.

-jenn