| No thanks for the memory, no thanks at all,
|
| no way we can wipe the slate or contrive escape
|
| from the names we’re called.
|
| No thanks for the memory, here it comes again,
|
| this life running on the spot, though we hide a lot
|
| with our cover names.
|
| We can no more change the past than shed our skins.
|
| But we keep on thinking that we might go someplace
|
| where not a soul knows what has gone before,
|
| with such headfuls of self-accusation
|
| that we don’t even know our own names anymore.
|
| No thanks for the memory,
|
| no thanks.
|
| Call them by a different name and turn about —
|
| we can no more change our spots than wash them out.
|
| No thanks for the memory, locked in the frame.
|
| No way we can change the pattern of things that happened
|
| under cover names.
|
| And we keep on skirting round the true confession,
|
| with fresh identities and best-laid plans;
|
| And we keep on working to outreach the shadow,
|
| but the shadow will outrun the man.
|
| With such headfuls of self-accusation,
|
| that no pseudonyms can hide our shame,
|
| lost in a jungle of our own creation,
|
| lost in a labyrinth of cover names…
|
| We can no more change the past than live again.
|
| We can no more shed our skins than know our real names.
|
| Nobody knows our real name,
|
| nobody knows their real name,
|
| we hide under cover names…
|
| No thanks for the memory. |