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May 26, 2013


I thought her love would save me.
But, baby, that’s not always how it works.
Interest rates are changing daily.
You are not guaranteed to get back what you paid.
There’s fine print, and you’d do well to read it.
Communism, really.
Only works in theory.
Remember this for when you need it.

Maybe if I’d known how much I’d miss her.
I’d have kept my hands out of her sister.
In retrospect, I’ll concede.
That wasn’t a particularly good idea.

So, I’m sulking and seething.
Slithering about with this ten tonne puss.
Then, Diamonds and Rust, I hear from you.
Stomach turning cartwheels.
Tongue turning the air blue.
Except in this version, you’re Bob Dylan.
Which is chilling.
I’d love to think I was Robert Zimmerman,
But when it comes to vagueness, the crown goes to you.
I wish you had his nose.
And perhaps his hair.
This whole silly affair could be over, right there.


From → Poetry

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