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.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
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.
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