_____
The men to whom I still suffer are moving in my legs
And those men who do not crush me,
Warn me,
‘What if this left you?’
But a joke it feels like because this white stony ground
Or the milky music here,
Doesn’t look like it might leave
To keep me from leaving, touch my face when I sing
And take my hand in a gentle way
You are my best friend so please don’t ever make me suffer.
Maybe I have nothing left but an itch on your shoulder.
And those men who do not crush me,
Warn me,
‘What if this left you?’
But a joke it feels like because this white stony ground
Or the milky music here,
Doesn’t look like it might leave
To keep me from leaving, touch my face when I sing
And take my hand in a gentle way
You are my best friend so please don’t ever make me suffer.
Maybe I have nothing left but an itch on your shoulder.