there's a woman in rags with a hunched-over back
never believing her life can correct
her bitter blood, veins in braids pumping
and pumping forever her hate
her brain, corroding in on itself
she never goes out or shouts
so in time it dies, bit by bit,
bullshit. in a blaze of confusion or pain
bullshit. in a blaze of confusion or pain
her hatred collides with love
all insane and discussing her mane
with an dove in a garbage dump
and he knows how she is- she can't understand
his words, though she feels his heart
and she cares for his flimsy whims, and shares
discussing his flight into unseen snares
discussing his flight into unseen snares
how this pair of dead dreamers careen
pipe dreams and schemes for a different life
but the hackles are raised and shamed
there's blame and it's time to call it a day
but the hackles are raised and shamed
there's blame and it's time to call it a day
so she goes back to bed in her ramshackle hut
cracks a walnut and falls back in a haze
aided by old man benadryl,
and a ham with a vino glaze
and a ham with a vino glaze
mildly enraged, for the sizable pile of pills remind
of a time with fun fancy days and more wine
of a time with fun fancy days and more wine
and parties and plays; people and tables and trays
