You believe nothing, and you care the same;
to you, all others' troubles are a game.
The die is cast, the counters move, and you
do unto others just in case they do
to you. And now, the hounds howl in their traps;
the hare is hurrying, they chase for scraps.
You are the bitch - the leaner, younger cur,
who hopes to bite the throat that stands for her
whom I was married to. The fatter hound
has met you many times on legal ground.
No doubt you think the fight a noble thing,
while one I loved a while and I still cling
to wishes that the fight was fought and done -
and then, to breathe clean air beneath the sun.

Facts are no weapon if they spoil the case;
truth is no object that you care to chase.
The fate of little ones you'll never know
does not dictate the lengths to which you'll go.
You fight for money, and a passing fame
among the others who still play the game.
You win for winning's sake, and never care
how you can get results from anywhere.
You met your match in me; you got your fee,
and yet you answered me unhappily,
because you lost. That I lost didn't count;
it only meant your average didn't mount.
Inside, you cursed in silence to the sky -
when I refused to let you make me lie.