Her image lasts longer than the scar of a good time
Or a cut deep in the flesh of the face at the front line
She takes what you give she sucks off your guilt
'Til the flowers of expectation dry out and wilt
I went to her room and we talked about my breakdown
I was Hegel, I was Kant, but she saw a clown
La commedia è finita, I started to cry
She took me in her arms and I stopped asking why
I fell in my corner and I tried to resist
My small time emotion, her slap on the wrist
I was Rimbaud's rude poetry to a desperate Verlaine
'Til the stroke of her rebuke cracked the whip again
"Regret nothing you silly boy", she said with a grin
"You're a Samuel Spode, not a sexual Solzhenitsyn"
I strutted like a cock from her boudoir to the hall
Pecking up my clothes, half blinded like St. Paul
There on the floor were the remains of my last meal
And a shredded book of poems she had tried to conceal
The birds clucked and fussed as she saw me to the door
Her final act of cruelty, a kiss, was the last straw