Cold, Cold Hands Poem by Allan James Saywell

Your cold, cold hands
That stroke my soul
Your cold, cold hands
That chill my bones
You made me feel the chill
That blow in from the arctic Ice
You made me feel that I did, nt belong
In your home you made so nice
It was you who tasted the street
You played me for a fool
When you found your crown Prince
When you found him he was a frog
That lived in a pond
You kissed him, he became a prince
I became a pauper
The pauper was touched by the Holy Ghost
The Prince bore the mark of Cain
You walked away with the Prince
Went back to the pond
You lived the life of a frog
I married the Holy Ghost
Became a man, complete in myself
For I need warm hands
To touch me
Not, cold, cold hands