| I have a pen, she said
|
| But it’s broke, it’s bereft
|
| 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
|
| 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
|
| In our crumpled skirts we sit there
|
| Wet and licking the quivering air
|
| 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 |