As the grossness of spring
lolls its head against the window
As the grossness of spring
lolls its bloodied head
Curare Curare Curare
brogue cries from the street
Curare Curare
As the grossness of spring
rose a tumor balloon to squeak
against the window
With the grossness of spring
staining into the walls
The chair had been shifted
ever so slightly
say five feet or two centimeters
The prints of my fingers
dusted from doorknobs
A lamp had been dimmed
Some sawdust where a ring had been
Where nice girls were turned into whores
Gardens with fountains
where peacocks had strutted
Where dead children were born
The splendor of tigers
turning to gold in the desert
Pale meadows of stranded pyramids
Sonny boy such a sonny boy
there's a song in the air
Curare Curare Curare
But the fair seniorita doesn't seem to care
Curare Curare Curare
As the grossness of spring
lolls its head against the window
As the grossness of spring
lolls its bloodied head
I merely got up so slowly
Shuffled across the floor
Closed the door on the landing
descending the stairs
dipping into the street
the paralyzed street
Brogue says
Good afternoon
I say
Good afternoon
Yes it's a lovely afternoon
Into pockets unstitching
so weighted with pins
Into eyes imploding
on mazes of sins
The puddle beneath the cork
bobbing on a mild chop
that rolled in off the river of Dix
and the open water beyond
Brogue says
I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY
IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY
Then me
I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY
IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY
Brogue
I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY
IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY
I'LL PUNCH A DONKEY
IN THE STREETS OF GALWAY
Sonny boy such a sonny boy
in her voice there's a flaw
Curare Curare Curare
Sonny boy bye bye sonny boy
e e aw and e e aw