she sings SONGS of nitro, goodbye, drunken lullabies; she falls into Q’s loose lies. Drunken lullabies,
Q pulls the razor, whet and fine down the valley of her spine, blood blossoms, white, red and pink.
Q’s thoughts are private, far away, Iron flavored, she rolls away.
What can I give thee back, O liberal
And princely giver, who hast brought the gold
And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,
And laid them on the outside of the wall
For such as I to take or leave withal,
In unexpected largesse? am I cold,
Ungrateful, that for these most manifold
High gifts, I render nothing back at all?
Not so; not cold,–but very poor instead.
Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run
The colours from my life, and left so dead
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
To give the same as pillow to thy head.
Go farther! let it serve to trample on.