All those lips she touched
That wouldn't touch more than her body
Parade across her bosom
On a stomp unearthing an anthology
Of lovers, if so they be called today
Who knew not what they had
What pure trust they did betray
And stole from your humble poet
A dream shaped in blown glass
Of spontaneity and structure
And sweet memory with no past
She could still tend to their wounds
But I'd take them down behind the shed
To the firing line that exhumes
Their sins in blood and intentions in smoke
For they left me with a dirty pretty thing
With a beating heart but wings broke
She still sticks to them like cigarettes
While my words drip off peeling like a used patch
Do you blame us?
We're not romeo, we're not juliette
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