War Poetry - with a difference.

At the risk of being accused of heresy, I will confess to a certain glazing-over of the eyes when encountering the words "first world war poetry". Some of the poetry is memorable, of course, but some is best passed over. When I came across Tim Kendall’s new 'Poetry of the First World War: An Anthology', I thought "another First World war poetry anthology? Surely there are plenty in the bookshops already?". A new offering needs to be pretty special to justify its existence. Luckily this one is very good, partly because it does not follow the usual pattern of arranging the poems thematically or chronologically, or both. In this anthology, all the examples of one poet’s work are put together, and the poets are arranged by order of birth date. This has the effect of placing the emphasis on the poetry rather than on a narrative of the war. The poems have been selected for their literary qualities rather than their documentary interest and this arrangement works for me as I found I was appreciating familiar poems once again.As you might expect, all the names we learned at school are here: Wilfred Owen, Rupert Brooke and Siegfried Sassoon (who was, fleetingly, in the Sussex Yeomanry at the same time as my grandfather) There is also Edward Thomas, whose lines:

No one cares less than I,
Nobody knows but God,
Whether I am destined to lie
Under a foreign clod

strike me, and probably many others, as being the antithesis of Brooke's corner of a foreign field:

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England.

Through the work of  Owen, Brooke, Sassoon et al we think we know the poetry of this war but it is the unfamiliar that makes this book so interesting. Who has heard of Edgell Rickword, Wilfrid Gibson, David Jones, Ivor Gurney or Mary Borden? All well thought of in their day but now largely forgotten. Read them and come across poems with such evocative lines as these:

I knew a man, he was my chum,
But he grew darker by the day,
And would not brush the flies away
(Rickword: Trench Poets) 

I shall be mad if you get smashed about
We've had good times together, you and I
(Rickword: The Soldier Addresses His Body)

As an unexpected bonus this anthology includes, in a final section, a compilation of songs from the trenches and music halls of the time. There is black humour and grim laughter in this section but with no less feeling than anything in the preceding pages.

And finally, I have to say how much the schoolboy in me was delighted to come across A.P. Herbert’s song of resentment against the officious martinet General Cameron Shute. Here it is in its entirety:

The General inspecting the trenches
Exclaimed with a horrified shout
'I refuse to command a division
Which leaves its excreta about.'

But nobody took any notice
No one was prepared to refute,
That the presence of shit was congenial
Compared to the presence of Shute.

And certain responsible critics
Made haste to reply to his words
Observing that his staff advisors
Consisted entirely of turds.

For shit may be shot at odd corners
And paper supplied there to suit,
But a shit would be shot without mourners
If somebody shot that shit Shute.

Poem that spells it out............

Next time you hear someone claim that immigrants are destroying Britain, show them this clip. Spoken word poet Hollie McNish spells out, in a poem called 'Mathematics', what’s wrong with most of the arguments used against immigration. I do like this ranty form of poetry and I think the style suits the subject matter. She cuts through the lies and misinformation and reflects the anger I feel at the naiveté of many of the views about immigration promulgated by irresponsible politicians and tabloid newspapers. Their xenophobia should be challenged at all opportunities. 

Strange Fruit: an evocative poem and an evocative song

A poem called 'Bitter Fruit' was my poem-of-the-day e-mail recently. Intrigued by the few details of the poet provided, I rooted around for more information. It is quite a poem and has quite a story.

 

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,

Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,

Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,

The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,

Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,

Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is the fruit for the crows to pluck,

For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,

For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,

Here is a strange and bitter crop.

The story behind the poem began on August 7th 1930 when Lawrence Beitler took what would become an iconic photograph of a lynching in the USA. Thomas Shipp and Abram Smith were lynched in the town centre of Marion, Indiana, for allegedly murdering a white factory worker, Claude Deeter, and raping his companion, Mary Ball. Shocked by this photograph, a schoolteacher from New York, Abel Meeropol, put pen to paper and wrote 'Bitter Fruit'. It was published under the name Lewis Allan in 1936/1937. "I wrote it", Meeropol said in a later interview, "because I hate lynching and I hate injustice and I hate the people who perpetuate it."  He also wrote a melody for it but jazz singer Billie Holiday and her pianist Sonny White reworked his simple tune into the 'Strange Fruit' version we hear today (although there are other versions of this part of the tale).

Holiday introduced the song into her act at Greenwich Village's Café Society in 1939. "Strange Fruit" always came at the very end of her set and the waiters would suspend service so the room was quiet. Holiday was lit with a small pin light on her face, which went dark at the song's conclusion. There were no curtain calls and no encores. With her incomparable voice and phrasing, I can imagine how powerful this must have been if you'd been lucky enough to see her live. The clip below gives just a flavour of what her audiences heard. The words are explicit but it's much more than a song of despair: to me Holiday's delivery gives it rage and resignation, sorrow and determination, bitterness and hope. In the true sense of the word, I find it multi-layered and deserving of close listening.

Poke around online, as I did, and you'll find that the song has been covered by many other singers: Nina Simone, Diana Ross, Cocteau Twins, Tim Buckley Sting, to name just a few (but thankfully not Bono - yet). However, rare is the performer who has invested the song with any new meaning or come close to Holiday's interpretation. Nina Simone's version is up there with the best but the likes of Diana Ross are just too theatrical for my taste. You can listen to them both below and see if you agree.

And to return to the beginning: Abel Meeropol. It strikes me as surprising, and notable, that the song's words - arguably the definitive lyrical condemnation of that particular era - were written not by an African-American but by a white Jewish Communist schoolteacher from the Bronx. "Southern trees bear strange fruit" indeed…..

A thought provoking poem by Carl Sandburg

Some days my poem-of-the-day e-mail comes up with something I find really engaging. Yesterday was one of those days, with the offering of Mag by Carl Sandberg. Who he? Sandburg (1878 - 1967) was an American writer, best known for his poetry: he was of poor Swedish stock and also enjoyed a reputation as a sometime folk singer. Apparently he inspired a young Bob Dylan. Not withstanding all these biographical details, let's return to the poem. I find it quite disturbing and pondering on it distracted me whilst I grappled with a recalcitrant bolt on our car. What is the poet expressing? Regret? Remorse? Make your own mind up. Here it is, followed by an excellent reading from the poet himself. I'll jot down my thoughts about it at the end. 

I WISH to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish you never quit your job and came along with me.
I wish we never bought a license and a white dress
For you to get married in the day we ran off to a minister
And told him we would love each other and take care of
     each other
Always and always long as the sun and the rain lasts anywhere.
Yes, I'm wishing now you lived somewhere away from here
And I was a bum on the bumpers a thousand miles away
     dead broke.
I wish the kids had never come
And rent and coal and clothes to pay for
And a grocery man calling for cash,
Every day cash for beans and prunes.
I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish to God the kids had never come.




What did I think of it? It struck me that this could be a poem of regret and remorse: the bitterness of a poor, overworked family man  Is he just sick and tired of being sick and tired of everything - and broke? He needs cash for rent and coal and clothes and cash for those beans and prunes. Perhaps he feels totally incapable of providing what his family needs? If he'd never met Mag, all this would not have happened. Will he feel the same way after he has rested and breakfasted the next morning? 

On the other hand, of course, he could just be totally disillusioned with love and family life and wants out. He is angry that marriage is meant to be "Always and always long as the sun and the rain lasts anywhere." but he's "wishing now you lived somewhere away from here" and that "the kids had never come".

What if he had never met Mag? If he's married a Peggy or a Sue, would he have wound up just as bitter? Something to ponder on.

Prince Charles and I ............................

......have something in common: we are both rubbish at reading poetry. As evidence of the royal inadequacy I offer you his recent reading of Dylan Thomas's Fern Hill.  It's a poem I like and it's named after a farm in Carmarthenshire, not far from Laugharne, belonging to his aunt and which Thomas used to visit as a boy. I identify strongly with his evocative and poignant description of his “green and carefree” days there, when he was “prince of the apple towns”, before musing, in later years, “the farm forever fled from the childless land”.
You'll have to take my word that I'm little better than his royalness at versifying. But what about others? What about the man himself? I always think that Thomas has more than a touch of John Gielgud's 'luvvy' intonation in the way he reads his own work. Of the usual list of Welsh voices, I've clipped in Richard Burton, Anthony Hopkins and Philip Madoc reading the same poem. There is absolutely no doubt that it needs reading with a Welsh accent and Richard Burton hits the spot for me. He's the boyo for this one! Hardly surprising really as he came from the same area of Swansea as Thomas and has the same rhythym in his voice. 

Cafe Frigo?

A rather odd, but strangely beguiling to read aloud, poem dropped into my in-box today. It's Time Study by the American poet, Marvin Bell.  Of it he writes: "I'm partial to coffee shops, brain work, and poems on the page. I write after midnight. Sometimes, twisty syntax happens, and I surrender". Bell has written poems for many years and was the first Poet Laureate of the state of Iowa (which begs the question of how many poets are there in Iowa?). He has written poems protesting against the Afghanistan and Iraq wars and has given readings for Poets Against the War. He did see active service during the Vietnam War and he writes from his experiences there. Here it is, enjoy - if it's your thing. I like it.

The coffee was cold so I said so. I said,
my coffee is cold, and then I repeated it
but with a variation, something like, my
coffee is cold and I said so, and then, I
said I am glad my coffee is cold because
I get to say so, and I said my coffee is cold
like the Sahara at night, and I said the Sahara
is a lot like my coffee, which has cream,
and it is cold which means I have to say so
or someone will say to drink my coffee,
which is cold and the camels are asleep.

Let’s try it again, I said, taking a sip of coffee,
and then not taking a sip but still holding
the cup and I said look at the cup and see
if you can see the Sahara and then I said,
it was in there a moment ago but I took a sip
and it is inside me I suppose, and I said then
the same thing, my coffee is cold, and also,
this coffee is cold to make sure they knew
which coffee, not coffee as coffee but coffee
as a part of the whole and also immediate
in some sense, like waking in the desert.

I write a lot about coffee, I said, and I said,
I just need to see who my friends are, the ones
who will stay till the end, and I added, I do not
take death as a personal insult, and I said it was
good to repeat things but not ideas, and I said
it was not good to repeat ideas, and I said also
it was good to repeat things, and I said my coffee
is cold and I can say so and I said when I say
my coffee is cold it is part of something bigger
that can last as long as I say it is, still is, and then
I said my coffee is still cold at this time, still is.

Serendipity at the Tip

 A doubly fruitful trip to the Launceston Amenity Tip yesterday. Firstly, I got rid of a load of stuff for recycling and, secondly, whilst waiting patiently in the queue for a slot at the right skip, I heard on the radio (was it R4?) someone read the following poem by Bertolt Brecht. Brecht wrote it in 1935 and it's entitled 'Questions from a Worker Who Reads'. I'm not that familiar with Brecht as a poet and I was very pleasantly surprised to find that I enjoyed it more than I'd assumed I would.

Who built Thebes of the seven gates?
In the books you will find the names of kings.
Did the kings haul up the lumps of rock?
And Babylon, many times demolished
Who raised it up so many times? In what houses
of gold-glittering Lima did the builders live?
Where, the evening that the Wall of China was finished
Did the masons go? Great Rome
Is full of triumphal arches. Who erected them? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Had Byzantium, much praised in song
Only palaces for its inhabitants? Even in fabled Atlantis
The night the ocean engulfed it
The drowning still bawled for their slaves.

The young Alexander conquered India.
Was he alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Did he not have even a cook with him?

Philip of Spain wept when his armada
Went down. Was he the only one to weep?
Frederick the Second won the Seven Year's War. Who
Else won it?

Every page a victory.
Who cooked the feast for the victors?
Every ten years a great man?
Who paid the bill?

So many reports.
So many questions.

There's lots to think about behind the words but I'm not in the mood for a Marxian analysis of their meaning right at this moment. You can do that for yourselves! I didn't catch who read the poem on the radio programme (but they were good) and have tried to find a decent recording on Youtube but to no avail. However, I did come across two audio-visual presentations of it. One good (the first one) and the other complete rubbish - a brutalist object lesson in how to mess up a good poem.


 

In praise of Thomas Hardy's poetry

Since I first dipped into The Mayor of Casterbridge in my entry year in grammar school, I've always enjoyed the novels of Thomas Hardy, though they are sadly out of fashion now. I read his entire canon and then graduated to his poetry. I'll admit that I don't like them all and, in my opinion, Hardy was a much better novelist than he was a poet. Ironically, he abandoned fiction after receiving an increasingly negative reception from the critics of the time  and turned entirely to writing verse. 

I like his shorter works and here's one that dropped into my inbox today. It seems to resonate with the sunny weather we are having at the moment. It's called 'The High School Lawn'.

Gray prinked with rose,
White tipped with blue,
Shoes with gay hose,
Sleeves of chrome hue;
Fluffed frills of white,
Dark bordered light;
Such shimmerings through
Trees of emerald green are eyed
This afternoon, from the road outside.

They whirl around:
Many laughters run
With a cascade's sound;
Then a mere one.

A bell: they flee:
Silence then:
So it will be
Some day again
With them, ...with me.

Another dose of melancholia from Charles Bukowski ..........but I like it.

Another poignant poem from Charles Bukowski - Hell is a Lonely Place. Sadly the scenario described is not uncommon and, when you think about it, not an illogical conclusion to a lifetime relationship. What would you do in similar circumstances?

It's April 7th and that means.................

...................it's William Wordsworth's birthday.  Given the time of year, he would always have daffodils around when he cut his birthday cake.  Here is what must be his most famous work, followed by some daffodils we've come across on our walks recently.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
   That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
   A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
   And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
   Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
   Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
   In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
   In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
   Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Who in the hell is Tom Jones" by Charles Bukowski

I subscribe to a few 'poem a day' services that drop a wide spectrum of verse into my inbox each day. Some good, same awful, some incomprehensible, some wonderful.  A quick scan usually lets me know what to do: ignore or read.  Today a poem by Charles Bukowski came in: 'Who the hell is Tom Jones'. This is one to listen to rather than read (Try the Youtube Spoken Verse channel). It came with a note purporting to be written by one of the protagonists in the drama.  I accept it is. It adds to the story and fills out my perception of the poet: someone who tended to write his words to suit the persona he created.  A persona that wasn't real but he had, nonetheless, a great talent.
 

I was the naive girl from NYC. Bukowski wrote this poem to promote the image of this hard-drinking, womaniser that he so fiercely wanted the public to believe was true. Yes he drank heavily, and at 55 he was not able to fulfil all that "shacking up" implies, not with me at least. The drawing is not representative of me or his drunk girlfriend. He wrote other versions of this incident, all to make himself look like the sought-after Casanova. He wrote marvellous, inaccurate drama.
 

Humouring the Iron Bar Man

Ms Bar proudly surveying her handiwork

Was it really way back in September last year when I waxed lyrical about my acquisition of the iron bar of my dreams? How time flies. Since then I've kept said bar cossetted from the winter weather, fearing that the fine patina would be degraded by the harsh conditions we experience down here in Cornwall. But, yesterday with the barometer set fair, it was time to take her (with such a curvaceous shape, she can only be female) and do the things that only she could do.  With a prod here and a lift there, a whole pile of stones were soon extracted from the ground and the construction of a retaining wall began. Hooray for Ms Bar - she's certainly lived up to my expectations.  Long may she continue to delight.

And the title of this blog? It comes from a free-verse poem, Humouring the Iron Bar Man, by Graham Fulton, a native of Paisley in Scotland. Not my usual fare but it's well worth reading through a few times before doing it out aloud in the best Scottish accent you can muster.

 
My back
is to the window
I am
in the public house
sitting
on foam and torn
cloth
glancing
behind me from time
to time
into a void of churchy spires
and soft
blue
I think
I know
the barman among the tobyjugs
is dumbly
mouthing the secret words
IS
HE
BOTHERING
YOU?

it is
slightly pouring down outside
and inside I am shaking my
head
trying hard
not
to laugh
for
if I laugh or suggest
a smile
the man in the jacket
squelching beside me
who introduced himself to me nicely
will bash me with an iron bar
over
my head which will crunch
crack
in front of everyone
out
for a chat in familiar surroundings
safe
secure
just like he didn’t do before
to somebody else he insists
He is
just out of Barlinnie
I am
glancing behind me from time
to
time
into a void of churchy blue
and soft
spires
I thought I
knew
so well So wrong

Many readers and just one poem

As a Welshman I suppose it's inevitable that I rate the works of Dylan Thomas very highly, especially his poem 'Do not go gently into that good night'.  I've just listened to the poet himself reading it and I found his rendition rather theatrical, almost histrionic.  Disappointingly devoid of the depth of passion I had anticipated would be in his delivery.  He's a writer and not a reader.  Am I alone in thinking this?



A good poem deserves a good reading and, I'm sorry Dylan bach, you just don't do it for me.  Out of curiosity I had a root around to see what other versions I could find and it's interesting to compare the various styles.

Let's start with another iconic Welshman, Richard Burton.  I'm afraid he falls into the 'very actorly' camp as well.  Too much proclaiming: too little passion.  Take it away, Dicky.

Mmm, let's see if that boyo from Port Talbot, Anthony Hopkins, can do any better.  A brave attempt, Tony, but a little lifeless for my taste.  Ever the thespian, eh?  Better stick to the chianti and fava beans.



Maybe changing continents will bring a better result?  Step forward, Tom O'Bedlam (a prolific reader of poetry via his Youtube nom de plume SpokenVerse).  A fantastic voice and, in my opinion, a very creditable rendering of the essence of the villanelle.  Full of passion and emotion, yet still spoken in the hushed tone that comes almost instinctively while in the presence of a dying light.  Good but not the best I came across.

 

 

Call me nationalistic (you're nationalistic, Parsons!) but I can't help it: only a Welsh voice can do justice to Dylan Thomas. And for me, that voice belongs to the late Philip Madoc.  An amazing interpretation and just the right blend of vocal light and dark.  I might just have chosen a reading for my funeral service!



Venturous harbinger of Spring

Not much colour in our garden at the moment although it won't be long before the daffodils are with us.  But we do have our first showing of snowdrops and there are many more to come.  Possibly my favourite flower and one that has moved many poets to verse over the years.  Here are just three examples: laugh-a-minute Ted Hughes gets my vote.

To the snowdrop (Charlotte Smith)
 Like pendant flakes of vegetating snow,
The early herald of the infant year,
Ere yet the adventurous crocus dares to blow,
Beneath the orchard boughs thy buds appear.

While still the cold north-east ungenial lours,
And scarce the hazel in the leafless copse,
Or sallows shew their downy powder'd flowers,
The grass is spangled with thy silver drops.

Yet when those pallid blossoms shall give place
To countless tribes, of richer hue and scent,
Summer's gay blooms, and autumn's yellow race,
I shall thy pale inodorous bells lament.

So journeying onward in life's varying track,
Ev'n while warm youth its bright illusion lends,
Fond memory often with regret looks back
To childhood's pleasures, and to infant friends.
 

To a snowdrop (William Wordsworth)
Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they
But hardier far, once more I see thee bend
Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend,
Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day,
Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay
The rising sun, and on the plains descend;
Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend
Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May
Shall soon behold this border thickly set
With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing
On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers;
Nor will I then thy modest grace forget,
Chaste Snowdrop, venturous harbinger of Spring,
And pensive monitor of fleeting years!

Snowdrop (Ted Hughes)
Now is the globe shrunk tight

Round the mouse’s dulled wintering heart.
Weasel and crow, as if moulded in brass,
Move through an outer darkness
Not in their right minds,
With the other deaths. She, too, pursues her ends,
Brutal as the stars of this month,
Her pale head heavy as metal.

 

 

 

Spooks - the poet replies

Following on from yesterday's post about Jack Underwood's poem 'Spooks', I did find his e-mail address and did ask him about his inspiration.  Here is his reply, for which I have his permission to reproduce below. I can identify with his comment about wobbly brain activity over which we have no control: our minds have minds of their own.

"Thanks for getting in touch. I'm glad you liked the poem and found it had legs thought-wise.

What the poem might mean I would, of course, leave with you, and even the question of where it came from is tricky, since it is impossible to know how much of an idea is to do with conscious activity and artifice when writing and how much is to do with wobbly brain activity of which you have no control or dominion over.

I think it might be something to do with Litvinenko, and the idea of poisoning and espionage. I think I probably absorbed some sort of horror from urban myths about people injecting people in clubs with HIV. Then there is the image of a battenburg cake being injected with ink from Vic Reeves' Big Night Out*. There is that moment when you discover a small amount of blood wet you bite into a hard apple. All this, plus the slightly odd ways in which desire works relative to other people, how it plays out externally. All of the above, and perhaps none of the above; like I say, impossible to know.

Hope that helps a little, though!"

(* For readers in NC, Vic Reeves is a UK comic who has a rather surreal take on humour - something akin to Spike Milligan**).
(** For readers in NC, Spike Milligan was a UK comic who had a rather surreal take on humour - something akin to Vic Reeves*).

Probably the UK's most original humourist?

'Spooks' by Jack Underwood

A poem in this week's New Statesman has entertained me for longer than they normally do.  It's 'Spooks' by a young English poet called Jack Underwood.  The theme is very black and I'm still trying to understand what it is about it that I like.  Perhaps I should e-mail Mr Underwood?  In fact, I will e-mail him and see what he says.

I want to inject blood into the banana
then put it smartly in a bowl I want
someone to idly choose it peel it then taste
the strange rust a quarter way down
and spit it out see blood in the lemony mulch
(a sort of red spit with the tiny black seeds)
I want them to check their mouth for a source a cut
and by now the person they are with will be confused
(blood on the lip in the footwell
at the gum-edges) and say are you ok?
I want them to reply there's blood then without
even meaning to without a logical tracing
of thought look back to the banana and see
blood in the banana, feel the raw shock
of something possibly unthought of
I want them to get to the idea that
someone put the blood in the banana
an idea drinking heat from the skin but held
unable to understand to fit the reasons
I want this to happen.

Bluebird: a poem by Charles Bukowski

I'm a fairly regular listener of the Radio 4 programme, Poetry Please and, every now and again, a little gem hits me. Last week, it was a reading of one entitled 'Bluebird' by an American poet, Charles Bukowski. You can listen to the reading by the poet himself on this short YouTube clip I think his voice is wonderfully expressive. Whilst looking for the clip, I came across an animation based on the poem and you can find that here
They are both well worth a couple of minutes of time viewing. OK, I admit that the theme is not particularly cheerful and I'm sure that the fact that the poem resonates with me is open to all sorts of interpretations. I won't indulge in any self analysis but I will say: let's all let our inner bluebirds free.
Here are the words but you really ought to hear the poet read them before forming an opinion on the poem.
There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.

Then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?