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The Song You Sing
The song you sing with such uncanny abandon and delight.
I've never heard it. Where did you learn it? Last night?
Your dress is tattered and your hair is matted and your feet are blistered and red.
I waited, unsated, but you didn't come to bed.
What from all of this should I understand?
A bloody fourth finger on your wedding hand!
If the whole of history of human endeavour,
And magic and science were aligned together,
If you could understand it, and command it,
Would you drink from the devil's cup?
Well, it may be the moon or the electric-trical weather, but
I feel like it's all coming together
In a moment of clarity, a form of immortality
Revealed itself to me.
You headstrong lass, to what higher power will you
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Wilt hereafter like a plucked mayflower?
Oh, what possessed you, heathen confessor?
You'll never draw another breath!
Unhand me, sir, loosen your grip, you don't know what's at stake!
And a ship does not necessarily a sailor make.
I feel older and yet still young
No gold handed over but wealth I've won
And oh, it stretches out away from here...
For rooted deep that no creeping root could fathom
On a gathering storm that greeted Eve and Adam
As a sweet droplet dripped from the apple to her lips
And she opened up the box!
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