She’s Standing Like A Rock, In The Middle Of A Flood, Don’t You Call It Home.
Old People Warn Us, At Night They Hear Shrieks Of Burning Dolls.
But Young Men Don’t Listen, They Wade In, Like Instruments Of Seduction.
She Keeps Painting Her Portrait, A Wicked Girl, With A Lot Of Pet Monkeys.

I Like Girls Who Laugh, Who Don’t Cross The Calendar Every Night,
But She Laughs Like A Gypsy, Don’t Think She Can Be Possessed At All.
Then She Half Veils A Smile, Like A Famous Painting,
I’m Watching Her From A Distance, Thinking,
Maybe Mona Lisa Wasn’t Meant To Be Satisfied.

She Used My Sorrow In A Poem, And I Forgot To Cry,
I Wandered Lost In Her Sand Tumbler, In Her Fine Balance Of Time.
The Air Here Is Sour, Always Tastes Of A Dead Joker.
Someone’s Always Crying, Trying To Pick, Another Last Laugh Line.

• The Cricket And The Grasshopper