like a bad smell
of a body in a well
the clock sounds the death knell
marking the descent to hell
of what could have been, well,
good.
I can't let go of my illusions
my school-girl fantasies
my feminist sympathies
my chauvinist suspicions
of all your intentions
You can't let go of your expectations
of sweet, obedient acquiescence
or whatever your true ideal of a woman is
(I can no longer pretend to understand
how your mind works)
So we keep vigil at a deathbed
pushing poison to hasten code red
a slanted rehash of what was said
a gassy pair of talking heads
Surely death will do us part
each with half a heart
but pride intact
