Brutally crunching up tiny sweet hearts
Those stale remainders of February
Whose ranks were once a veritable rainbow
Now only a few distasteful colors are left
Mainly the greens and the yellows
Their death cries are pathetically corny
They call me “Sweet Love” and “Angel”
As if these attempts at seductive platitudes
Could halt my ever chewing teeth
Or still my craving for more
The Wisdom of Gavroche 