I've been to St. James' Infirmary
to hide away
where my suitor put a bullet through me.

These days I'm a ghost,
and haunting is a hindrance
to the acid-burnt hole in my
transparent tongue
that longs to be able to lick
the sharp side of a knife.

But I sit in St. James' Infirmary
because I'm sick to my stomach
and sick to my brain.

I'm not the hero of this story
because all I found was a darling
that I didn't wish to cherish.

The darlings will all go to New York or somewhere
to escape from being buried alive
in this cemetery I've been digging up
for as long as I can remember.