I was always working steady, but I never called it art. I got my shit together, meeting Christ and reading Marks. It failed my little fire, but it spread the dying spark. Go tell the young Messiah, what happens to the heart. There's a mist of summer kisses where I tried to double park. The rivalry was vicious, the women were in charge. It was nothing, it was business, but it left an ugly mark. I've come here to revisit, what happens to the heart. I was selling holy trinkets, I was dressing kinda sharp. I had a pussy in the kitchen, and a panther in the yard, in the prison of the gifted. I was friendly with the guards, so I never had to witness, what happens to the heart. I should have seen it coming, after all, I knew the chart. Just to look at her was trouble, it was trouble from the start. Sure we played a stunning couple, but I never liked the part. It ain't pretty, it ain't subtle. What happens to the heart? Now the angel's got a fiddle, the devil's got a harp. Every soul is like a minnow, every mind is like a shark. May I have broken every window, but the house, the house is dark. I care but very little. What happens to the heart? Then I studied with this beggar, he was filthy, he was scarred. By the class of many women, he had failed to disregard. No fable, hear no lesson, no singing meadowlark, just a filthy beggar guessing. What happens to the heart? I was always working steady, but I never called it art. It was just some old convention, like the horse before the cart. I had no trouble betting on the flood against the ark. You see, I knew about the ending. What happens to the heart? I was handy with a rifle, my father's .303. I fought for something final, not the right to disagree.