|
Under the table and down in the pit with out plastic |
|
potatoes and Joe-Joe the dove on the spit. On the |
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spoons you made rhythm; I whistled the blues cos |
|
my throats been misused and my voice is a crack in |
|
the tar. In the jar is a tablet they sent in the post, |
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with a pamphlet. With an order; "Take this when the |
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pain gets too much!" I confess I feel nothing at all . . . |
|
I'm bored and you're bald, but I laughed when you |
|
called me the snail. My red trail runs behind me. |
|
I'm guilty, no secrets. You're not such a picture |
|
yourself--but your brown eyes I know so very well. |
|
They're sadder and wiser; We've finally been |
|
through it all. Now our time's slowly ticking away. |
|
Do you think there's a heaven? Backwards: I feel nothing at all) |
