I've said some bold words in my time -
Made tragedies of pantomime.
I've kissed some morons in my day -
Too young I thought I'll lose the hay.

I lived as the greatest lover
(Or the most pathetic, rather) -
Mad walks in the rain and letters
Oft took judgement from my betters,

Let's add to the pile morn roses,
Bookshop rushes ere it closes,
Philosophy and late night talks,
And still more mad, but sunny, walks,

Journeys on the train to Glasgow,
Two tickets to Panic!'s last show,
Bekhôled reading Thomas Hardy,
Sapphires costing a fair farthing,

And now, and then, in your study,
I'd be your debating buddy,
Then your patient, then a girl:
An embrace set you in a whirl.

Our first kiss was in tears, my love,
Our confession was at a shove,
Our first handhold was without hope,
You always said we had no scope -

And yet you'd loved me, lover mine,
Or begged for it upon my shrine,
Conceived it in my breast of stone -
You conquered, and I lost, and won.

I never spoke more equally
With any man, but now my plea
Falls down on your attentive ears
As would a rusted pair of shears.

I do not mean to **** you, love,
I meant to raise you up above
The idol that my head construed -
I've held you, never rough or rude

As loving is, but passionate
And real and true, and I, to date,
Have never felt more like a queen
Than in our kisses, sweet and keen.

And all my verses do abuse
This love of mine - I have no ruse
For I am rendered dumb by you,
And know no truth but in your view.

Sweet Uiginn's son, whom I must meet,
Swept sev'ral times from off my feet
But never truly, only now -
Why say you "No", and ask not "How?"?

I was ever most faithful to my labour,
A duty that I never paid to man:
And even now, I am stripped of this favour,
No more am I my workplace's loyal fan.

I wish I could say our romance has cooled off,
That I'm not stirred by spreadsheets' disarray,
Alas, those items firmly must be ruled off,
And here the reasons be for this decay:

I was profoundly lucky in employment:
I worshipped bosses justly - they were gods.
I worked hard, in this toil I found enjoyment,
Because my contract listed all the odds.

I did not sign to slavery, dear Master,
I did not sign my health and bloom away,
I did not sign that you could be a b@st@rd
When things were simply not going your way,

I did not sign to poverty and worry,
I did not sign to papers gath'ring dust,
I did not sign that you cannot be sorry,
For I have rights, and note this down you must:

I did not sign to shoulder all these burdens,
Because they are not written on the page!
You cannot simply smile, and draw the curtains,
You cannot make us objects of your rage

When you yourself do run the ship so poorly!
I pity you, but pity is not love;
And thus I sign myself, proudly, and sorely,

A woman pushed to crashing by your shove.

I bear a pain that's all your own,
Perhaps we switched, unknowing,
For if you've this, and I have both,
Then where is Justice going?
Perhaps you'll say, you know it's true
That there is no such honour,
And, every day, the less we'll rue,
Move onward, and why bother?
A painful stride of mine this is
To carry both our crosses -
The irony, the state, is this:
I cut, and hold, our losses.

But in a prayer, I should find light,
And with more prayers, you'll find yours,
My pride knows nothing but the fight,
Is known to beat on blind doors;
I was a fool, and this I know,
To kiss, or write, or wander,
But human nature errs, and so
There's now, there's then, and yonder.

Scant verse I offer now to you
With little wisdom to it:
A broken record with no view
Of how I'd be a poet:
Thinking that artists paint all things,
And words are nothing sacred,
No sorries are there, and no strings,
No reparations make it.

Why I should bow out in disgrace,
Why I should worsen suffering,
Endart mine eye in yours, and face:
I said much, and said nothing.

Far from it being mine to know
16 years of pain, maybe more,
Far from it being mine to show
The stars to follow back to shore.

I do not know where you may be,
I do not know the currents there;
Far from it, mine to know the sea,
Far from it, mine your soul to bear.

Far from it, when you rise to cut the line,
Far from it, when you cut all ties to me;
I can't be yours, I offered what is mine:
A hand to guide upon a darkened sea.

You're not the last to hurt her, man,
She wishes she could say you were,
She's glad to say you won't be. Shan,
Is't not? But you'll deny as per, as per.

She was a thorn within your side,
A feather to get off your chest,
You let it go, you let it bide,
You cursed her, wished her all the best.

You're not the last to hurt her, man -
Her husband has that honour -
Hug her best verse as best you can,
And never say you won her.

Three years ago to this very day,
I signed something of my soul away;

But that is love that doesn't last,
And present lives the longing past,
Though nothing of your face remains
In aught I look at, and the pains
Are well-healed scars, and I did best
To put all mementos to rest,
I even ceased to sing your songs,
Then made them my own, for these wrongs;

And still something of your prosody
Remains in my voice's melody.

You can say all roads lead to Rome
And a few lead to Wytham
Yes, a few lead to Wytham
As quiet as it is, but roam
Your way, on your bus, on your car:
I only know one, I only want one
And it may be long to go so far
On so little, but I shan't be gone
Unless it be by foot or on a bicycle
Run past the ruins of Godstow, the road
A minefield in sweet quiet from the bridge, tickle
The Trout, press the hedges at the goad
Of yet another motor, on bike or foot
On bike or foot, that I may kiss the ground
In pilgrimage to memory and childhood
Before the shades in which we're lost, we're found.