Your Woman -
It is Godless men I tame,
All by compassion.

Such an art man has so little mastered,
Yet they have all so conquered.

Please tell me,
What is more conquering than the batting eyelash
Of a paragon girl with ripe, bleeding fingers

For I stay pulling thorns out of wed-less men
And in my eternal giving, they give to me.

Everyday, he says.
Everyday, he does.

He shoves ideas of greatness down into his soul,
Hoping it will make up for never knowing me at all.

Of course, knowing me distracts
So, let's not go there, kid.
No, just let me do my thing instead.

So I let him play and play,
Like the child he is.

And, still, no one knows me.

He gives me lightening
With those fingers - as slender as the Devil's

He gives my brain the scramble,
With those looks - they haunt my reason

I know he thinks he's teasin,
But in the end, it's always me he's pleasin'

He could be playing his lot with the girls,
Tell me, then
Why he has practiced me to perfection?

I couldn't tell you what I'm here for,
For all these people who are dear to me?
Who think cruel thoughts just the same as me?

I couldn't tell you what I'm here for,
Believe me, going outside makes it all less clear.
For I see these things, working for one another.

I forget..who am I working for again?
For all these things that were here before me?
For all these things knowing life without me?

Well, tell me: did you know a life before the trees?
The Sun, the Arts?
No, because they are the need.

I am not the need.