I BRING you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams,
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:
White woman with numberless dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme.

You smoke parliaments to warm up
The way you inhale and exhale
The smoke curls around your lips like music
Somehow you can make even the worst things look beautiful
You hold the cigarette between your fingertips
And talk to the hipsters around you  
All so much alike, but all so different
You try to exhale your problems
Along with the smoke
I look at you and wish it was me you crave
My breath going in and out of your lungs
My fingers that you hold so carefully between yours

I'm angry,
I'm sad,
I'm happy,
I'm glad,
I wish,
I cry,
I jump,
I fly.

There was a man called Woogers,
Who liked to eat his boogers,
All the kids in the street,
Thought it was a disgusting feat,
He almost stopped,
But then he popped,
All of his raging boils.

There was a man named Soils,
Who liked to pop his boils,
All the animals around,
Thought it was a disgusting sound,
So he stopped,
And dropped,
Dead.