Tell me things of profound significance and you have a pair of unfulfilled ears.
Tell me not of your latest phase, nor of what you had for breakfast and what you didn't.
Tell me that you and I are born out of the same explosive star.
Tell me that your rented house and mine will burn and collapse under the heat of the same sun.
Tell me not of the latest track doing its rounds and selling tee-shirts and raising eyebrows.
Tell me not of the latest scandal engineered by ghosts on their pet nymph.
Tell me that you'll die tomorrow and that my words will remain in you and rot in velvet flannel as they lay you to sleep under the ageing grass sprinkled with holy water decorated with lazy inscriptions.
Tell me not your latest trick, tell me not your mother's tryst with a man as old as you.
Tell me that you'll stay young and burn with me when the crowds come, calling me on bringing me to account for all that I failed to talk of.