|
I have a pen, she said |
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But it's broke, it's bereft |
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Without its hand I don't understand |
|
I don't understand |
|
I'm given in to the deluge of age |
|
Shit off a shovel and shit by the spade |
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Where does the colour go |
|
When the flowers grow old? |
|
In my darkest hour |
|
I lie down in the arms of these flowers |
|
The grass is so soft like hair |
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In our crumpled skirts we sit there |
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Wet and licking the quivering air |
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The voluptuous air |
|
I'm given in to the deluge of age |
|
Shit off a shovel and shit by the spade |
|
Where does the colour go |
|
When the flowers grow old? |
|
In my darkest hour |
|
I lie down in the arms of these flowers |
|
Herein pornography |
|
Two tear inevitably |
|
A butterfly so delicately |
|
On her wet lips slips |
|
And she sucks it in |
|
And she sucks it in |
|
I'm given in to the deluge of age |
|
Shit off a shovel and shit by the spade |
|
Where does the colour go |
|
When the flowers grow old? |
|
In my darkest hour |
|
I lie down in the arms of these flowers |
