Under the table and down in the pit with out plastic
Potatoes and Joe-Joe the dove on the spit. On the
Spoons you made rhythm; I whistled the blues cos
My throats been misused and my voice is a crack in
The tar. In the jar is a tablet they sent in the post,
With a pamphlet. With an order; «Take this when the
Pain gets too much!» I confess I feel nothing at all . . .
I’m bored and you’re bald, but I laughed when you
Called me the snail. My red trail runs behind me.
I’m guilty, no secrets. You’re not such a picture
Yourself—but your brown eyes I know so very well.
They’re sadder and wiser; We’ve finally been
Through it all. Now our time’s slowly ticking away.
Do you think there’s a heaven?
