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You'll recall from the sagas I hope Grettis last stand at Drangey |
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How his grip on the sword made his enemies cut off his hand |
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If he'd fled here instead, and had tasted this terrible coffee |
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Or read these letters you sent he'd surrender, and lay the blade down |
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And it's Halloween |
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Skinny ghosts dress like cowboys and rest at the railing by my door |
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On their way from the children's ward |
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Bev Monroe and his panel of ally boys play at the party |
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And I practice my English on nurses, Oh, that's a nice name. |
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And they may ask for mine, but the burns on my back from the x-rays |
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Say I shouldn't show anyone anything ever again |
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In another year |
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I'll be buried or shivering here. Coughing at the grey spittoon |
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Painted orange by the harvest moon |
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Pack up mother's clothes |
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Drive her down to the new Betel Home |
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Sell the boat to Arnison |
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And then go stand up straight |
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In the place you're longing for |
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And don't write to me anymore |
