Meet you in Poland;
The cold, kilowatt-measured, complicated love triangles. The third being who I think I am.
Meet you in Poland;
The love sensed, purple-tinted, misogynistic air.
It’s where she lives. She’ll play the flute there, I’m sure. I heard my neighbour through the dented walls; dented by the amount of people who have lived and moved out. I heard them play flute. I dented the walls moving out. I thought, **** it, they’ll remember me by it. Unlikely though, I’m not the first to dent. I saw the light on in there once, after I’d dented the walls. The light was never on when that room was ours.
Meet you in Poland;
You’re off with the third but the one you think I am. And you’ve put him onto a second man. Not me.  So I’ll meet you in Poland