I can pulverize you with these antics
of the road, if you'd like, or crash this
car into the bridge, if you'd like that
instead. You pick the speed I go at.
These are all life-choices, loving one,
the rainbow at the end of time, the dirge
that they sing in the morning's funeral
mass. There's never a straight line
to follow, to a crooked end.
You can put the songstress in a bottle -
he's a he but he's really a girl. He worries
about the funniest things : how he looks
to a crowd, how his pants fit, unfurled.
A regular mad-dash Jagger, where once
the bad-boys sang. How's that go again
anyway? Oh, yes, I recall:
'Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.'