Pretty women wonder where my secre
I’m not cute or built to suit a fa
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,

One innocent spring
your voice meant to me
less than tires turning
on a distant street.
Your name, perhaps spoken,

When I think about myself,
I almost laugh myself to death,
My life has been one great big jok
A dance that’s walked
A song that’s spoke,

We die,
Welcoming Bluebeards to our darke
Stranglers to our outstretched nec
Stranglers, who neither care nor
care to know that

I’ve got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since depart
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried token
Of their sojourn here

A last love,
proper in conclusion,
should snip the wings
forbidding further flight.
But I, now,

Curtains forcing their will
against the wind,
children sleep,
exchanging dreams with
seraphim. The city

There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win

The sun has come.
The mist has gone.
We see in the distance...
our long way home.
I was always yours to have.