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Burning smell of black-dyed hair |
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Bathroom bit by winter air |
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You shit-talk your old lovers |
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What's left 'neath your cold covers? |
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Your father's shaky tacit holds |
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Ankles strangled in the folds |
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The fitted sheet at the feet of spring |
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Come see me when you can't sing |
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Any longer as things go |
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Mouth all full of filthy snow |
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And you wouldn't know |
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But I still can't believe |
|
And that smell |
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The burning hell |
|
Of the tress |
|
And what can I tell |
|
You but yes? |
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And very well |
|
I wake up to a joke so deep |
|
Laugh myself right back to sleep |
|
Walk along the thawing shore |
|
That's pawing at my young drugstore |
|
Where last I saw your baby teeth |
|
Glinting as I fell beneath |
|
And you wouldn't know |
|
But I still can't believe |
|
And that smell |
|
The stinging swell |
|
Of the day |
|
Has shown me the way |
|
And what can I say |
|
But very well? |
|
And you wouldn't know |
|
But I still can't believe |
|
About that smell |
|
The way it fell |
|
Indelibly spry |
|
And how am I? |
|
Can't you tell? |
|
I'm very well |
|
I'm very well |
