Your text that would incite a light, "Be lit"
Our music deserving devotion unswerving
Cry "Do I deserve her?" with unflagging fervor
Well, no you do not, if you cannot get over it
But what's it mean when suddenly we're spent, tell me true
Ambition came and reared it's head, and went far from you
Even mollusks have weddings, though solemn and leaden
But you dirge for the dead, take no jam on your bread
Just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed
And all at once it came to me
And I wrote and hunched 'till four-thirty
But that vestal light
It burns out with the night
In spite of all the time that we spend on it
On one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet
While outside, the wild boars root
Without bending a bough underfoot
Oh it breaks my heart
I don't know how they do it
So don't ask me
And as for my inflammatory writ
Well, I wrote it an' I was not inflamed one bit
Advice from the master derailed that disaster
He said "Hand that pen over to me, poetaster!"
While across the great plains, keening lovely and awful
Ululate the last Great American Novels
An unlawful lot, left to stutter and freeze, floodlit
But at least they didn't run, to their undying credit
Oh, where is your inflammatory writ Your text that would incite a light, "Be lit" Our music deserving devotion unswerving Cry "Do I deserve her?" with unflagging fervor Well, no you do not, if you cannot get over it But what's it mean when suddenly we're spent, tell me true Ambition came and reared it's head, and went far from you Even mollusks have weddings, though solemn and leaden But you dirge for the dead, take no jam on your bread Just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed And all at once it came to me And I wrote and hunched 'till four-thirty But that vestal light It burns out with the night In spite of all the time that we spend on it On one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet While outside, the wild boars root Without bending a bough underfoot Oh it breaks my heart I don't know how they do it So don't ask me And as for my inflammatory writ Well, I wrote it an' I was not inflamed one bit Advice from the master derailed that disaster He said "Hand that pen over to me, poetaster!" While across the great plains, keening lovely and awful Ululate the last Great American Novels An unlawful lot, left to stutter and freeze, floodlit But at least they didn't run, to their undying credit Explain Request ×
Lyrics taken from
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