You thought I was that type: br That you could forget me, br And that I'd plead and weep br And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare, br br Or that I'd ask the sorcerers br For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift: br My precious perfumed handkerchief. br br Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul br Vicarious tears or a single glance. br br And I swear to you by the garden of the angels, br I swear by the miracle-working icon, br And by the fire and smoke of our nights: br I will never come back to you.