Saturday, March 5, 2011


I'm better looking when I'm crying
My eyes look greener when they're wet
I've drunk thousands of the wantings
that taste better not to get
And I've danced the dance of lacking, and I've dreamed tomorrow's corn
But I could swear, my baby, I've run out of things to mourn

The problem comes when you forgive it
when your father comes a man
and your mother comes a broken heart
and the world becomes a Plan
you run out of ways to shout about the pain of being born
and I swear to you, my baby, you run out of things to mourn

So you sing your songs of glory
and you cry your cries of pain
but you can't remember reasons
or the friction, or the rain
so you write a poem of justice, and your mouth goes wide with scorn
But the outrage is a little forced--you've nothing left to mourn

One day you find the sun is out
You half-way mourn the cloud
then let it slip and slip away
Let fall the joyous shroud
It takes you and you cannot weep, can't paint your face forlorn
And if you cry, it's over milk--you're out of things to mourn


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