Poor Thing. To Die And Never See

Blue Eyes Wash Off Sometimes.

I've Grown Tired Of Love You Are The Trouble With Me I Watch You Walk Right By

There Is Joy In All: In The Hair I Brush Each Morning, In The Cannon Towel, Newly Washed, That I Rub My Body With Each Morning.

No Matter Whose Bed You Die In The Bed Will Be Yours For Your Voyage Onto The Surgical Andiron Of God.

I Burn The Way Money Burns.