Thought that if I could keep it quiet for the weekend,
then I would just like that be healed and all'd be all,
but Monday came, and I got lost while walking along the way
between Bad Conscience and the Old Chorale.
I know I know what makes it tick. It's not a mystery.
But there is not any damn thing that I can do
to keep from always being tapped and drained
and sapped and tunneled under. The words
["Ô pauvres yeux!"] all all all weak, all strained.
Once it is gone, it does not come back,
but it will hang in the air and taunt you:
"Hey, one more thing that you have failed to see
through.
Of course. Of course. Of course you did. Of course."
And as the week rolled by, from my bed on high,
I watched the mess spread out unto the wells. Well!
I'll have a perfect view of the other shoe as it falls,
if it falls.
