|
This letter you get it, |
|
You burn it, |
|
Forget it |
|
It's not what I meant to say |
|
You might think me a scapegrace |
|
Really a fugitive in decay |
|
I exist here on an acre of nature |
|
In the diminutive |
|
But I'll be thinking of you, I would wager |
|
My favorite hypocrite |
|
You are a master of the commerce of friendship |
|
So I put all of my feathers on |
|
I wrote you this letter, I'll send it |
|
When this foul weather is gone |
|
Of your last words to me I am thinking |
|
And of the depth of your eyes |
|
But you can't halt the profound shrinking |
|
Of this, my porcelain life |
|
You're vexed that I reject your protection |
|
Well I abhor captivity |
|
I want to live alone in my little section |
|
So very wild and watery |
|
How to preserve my own mistaken perfection? |
|
Or your refined vulgarity |
|
I only tenuously ask you this question |
|
Out of a sense it was for clarity |
|
You are a master of the commerce of friendship |
|
So I put all of my feathers on |
|
I wrote you this letter, I'll send it |
|
When this foul weather is gone |
|
Of your last words to me I am thinking |
|
And of the depth of your eyes |
|
But you can't halt the profound shrinking |
|
Of this, my porcelain life |
|
My porcelain life |
|
My porcelain life |
|
I find it very breakable |
|
My porcelain life |