Gentlemen, love is madness.
It is, indeed, pure woodness.
Tell me why else, Gentlemen,
A fellow respected so by men.
In rage, heartsick and spurned,
By his lover'd be so churned,
To put a knife to his member,
And so geld himself in anger.
It's madness, lunacy, good sir,
That in one stroke of his razor,
A fellow chops off his bollocks,
To have an engine and no gearbox.
That he never again roars to life
'Cause a girl wouldn't be his wife
To what end, good sir, to what end?
Must for love one so low descend?