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don't come to me looking for poetry
when you know I have no soul
i gave that shit up back
when the last full moon set on eighty-eight

the camels stopped marching to my lips
and the oasis of my childhood
turned out to be just another one of Homer's mirages
greek and hairy -- a great cook with giant sagging tits.

don't ask me to paint for you again
when you know I have no eyes
i gave that shit up back
when you kissed me good bye in eighty-eight

miss america pie and vincent never gave you a second glance
and i can sing you every word still
but we both know it's me on my period:
Blue.

don't ask me to sing for you anymore
when you know that I have no lyrics
i gave that shit up back
when i buried you with roses back in nineteen eighty-eight.

your casket was lovely in the icy gold of the march sun
and amazing grace still rings through the nights
but not your husky voice
we buried that with my poetry and you.