Poor Laszlo’s stuck as if he’s been denied
The love of Ilsa; through no fault of hers.
She thought him dead, you see, the Nazi’s lied,
And off she takes with Rick; how Paris stirs
The blood and rills it in the heart there, spills
Onto the Champs Elysees, and when she finds
Duty is the thing that kills
In war, not guns, grenades or bombs. It binds
Ideals and submarines all thoughts of love.
It blinds the optimist and buries hope.
It’s why so many die inside, the shove
Unsubtle, guts become the hangman’s rope.
And if Morocco is the place to be,
Let corpses swing there, one or two or three.