I had the patience of a saint. I had the pretense if a whore,
But if I said the same of you, you would not love me anymore.
I had the kindness of a fern with fronds so dewy in the fold
With little needles poking out, so you could not escape my hold.
And in the space of my embrace, you misplace
All the time you knew outside the few remainders of your futile, mortal race.
I think I’ll sing this note forever. This note, it suits me just fine.
And though your skin was coming off and you were anything but dry
I hung your dermis on the line because I’m just that sort of guy
And when the dog jumped on the sack that once contained the stuff of you,
I did my best to wrest away, but on your body he did chew.