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We lined up there pale, stiff and cold, like racks of bed and breakfast toast |
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So high up on the slate quarry, that you swore that you could see the coast |
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I thought I lost you in the dark, only twenty-four feet apart |
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More stories tightrope on that stare, than the same white line at Meurig Park |
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The dirt above, the stars below, I watched your face dry cold amid the afterglow |
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And when they think of you and me, it's clear if you're the doormat, I'm the hickory |
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Happenstance can wait for tomorrow, cause you got to do it right |
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Your shoulders flow from neck like a wine bottle's, bear them broad tonight |
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You and I, we consecrate, my heart and all resolve might break |
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You'll know us by the way we crawl, you'll know us by our cemetery gaits |
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Dawn comes, awoken by sheep's bleat, a fleet of hearses line the street |
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A widow sobs, more widows weep, while we intrude like a widow's peak |
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I shimmy up the cenotaph, regale with my melancholy |
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"Two words upon my headstone, please", don't need date or name, just 'Sad Story' |
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They boast of poets on their side, but what use will they be if this comes to a fight? |
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I glance along the length of pew and all that I can think's I want to undress you |
