With hope my single ideology, innocence my only weapon,
I rose out of the nursery and went to conquer Love.
I passed all the girls in cellophane, said No to the ones in bows.
No purpose found I in frivolity: I was out to conquer Love.
And Love was a Virgin in a Pershing tank, a saint in burnished chain mail.
And I was Bubba in a pickup truck, an Eskimo in underwear.
Still, no purpose found I in frivolity. I was out to conquer Love.
So: I fell on Love with my Weakness, and I fell on Love with my Hope,
Fell on Love with my Purpose – was all-out to conquer Love.
But my belief blunted to memory, and my arms were battered to guile.
I fell back into my hatchery – I was out, oh! conquered by Love.
‘Cause Love’s a Virgin in a Sherman tank, Guan Yin in a steel nuptial veil.
I was a hick in a beat-up truck, an Eskimo exposed to the bare.
Though I found no purpose in frivolity, I was downed, conquered by Love.
And so now I pass my time with cellophane girls, say Yes to those in bows;
manservant of this world I found, not one to conquer Love.
But sometimes fondly I remember the days before I learned my craft
When, once in my hopes and my weakness. I had set out to conquer Love.