I make no bones about it;
I’m as common as they come.
I have since lost interest
In things coming undone.
I’ve eaten of black mutton
And I’ve gnawed a serpent bone,
A multitude of oranges
In a pomegranate home.
I’ve supped a core of cedar pine,
It’s bitter on my tongue,
A slimy sea of candle wax
A wicked xylophone.
And on a rosy-bowered swing
I’ve heard whispered all alone,
“I will love you until the day I die.”