Oh, where is your inflammatory writ?
Your text that would incite a light; 'be lit'
Our music deserving
Devotion unswerving
Cried; 'do I deserve her?'
With unflagging fervor
Well, no we do not, if we cannot get over it
But what's it mean when suddenly we're spent? - tell me true
Ambition came and reared its head and went - far from you
Even mollusks have weddings
Though solemn and leaden
But you dirge for the dead
And take no jam on your bread
Just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed
And all at once
It came to me
And I wrote in hunch 'til four-thirty
But that vestal light
It burns out with the night
In spite of all the time that we spend on it
Om one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet
While outside the wild boars root
Without bending a bough underfoot
Oh, it breaks my heart - I don't know how they do it
So don't ask me!
And as for my inflammatory writ?
Well I wrote it and I was not inflamed one bit
Advice from the master
Derailed that disaster
Said; 'hand that pen over to me, poetaster!'
While across the great plains
Keening lovely & awful
Ululate the last great american novels
An unlawful lot left, to stutter and freeze floodlit
But at least they didn't run, to their undying credit
Your text that would incite a light; 'be lit'
Our music deserving
Devotion unswerving
Cried; 'do I deserve her?'
With unflagging fervor
Well, no we do not, if we cannot get over it
But what's it mean when suddenly we're spent? - tell me true
Ambition came and reared its head and went - far from you
Even mollusks have weddings
Though solemn and leaden
But you dirge for the dead
And take no jam on your bread
Just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed
And all at once
It came to me
And I wrote in hunch 'til four-thirty
But that vestal light
It burns out with the night
In spite of all the time that we spend on it
Om one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet
While outside the wild boars root
Without bending a bough underfoot
Oh, it breaks my heart - I don't know how they do it
So don't ask me!
And as for my inflammatory writ?
Well I wrote it and I was not inflamed one bit
Advice from the master
Derailed that disaster
Said; 'hand that pen over to me, poetaster!'
While across the great plains
Keening lovely & awful
Ululate the last great american novels
An unlawful lot left, to stutter and freeze floodlit
But at least they didn't run, to their undying credit