My mother would rather have me
quietly contemplating worldly nothings
instead of losing my godly everythings
in turn-up bottles tonight. My mother
has learnt too carefully to frame
newspaper tragedies into final family
photographs waiting to happen. Poet,
who drove you home last night and
at what time and why night and
you've gotta realize when you're
taking the whole art thing too far. Poet,
you have to learn how to listen you're
naive you're young you don't know what
life really is. Poet, look at me when I'm talking
to you. Look at me when I'm talking to