It ain't like I'm not on your side

But you have misplaced yourself. You would think a socialist would be less inclined to endorse ownership, but there you are with that ring on your finger like a collar on a canine. Fearful of the voltage should you stray, you stand fast within those invisible electric barriers and content yourself with the view — or do you not even look anymore? Is your lack of progeny a choice, or a symptom of your apparent neutering? Ah, but I am growing mean, taunting the fenced-in dog with insults, and pegging it with stones. Still, it is just as cruel to offer kindness and steaks, is it not? Yet offer them I do, like water to a horse, and would offer ever more.

"For you, my heart, ripped from my chest. Eviscerated, I am. And if I could, I would plunge my fingers through my chest and rip out my heart and give it to you. A pulpy mass of morbid diathesis. In addition to my heart, there are some small organs that want to give you: glands... sweetbreads... variety meats. I'm offering these gifts."

You reach for them every so often, a hesitant limb wavering indecisively in the air, but ultimately withdraw without so much as snatching a sample. Hey, there is no string attached to these gifts, no pressure plate underneath waiting to spring a trap on you, and it ain't like I'm trying to keep you.