I have no time for mermaids' yellow hair,
Nor patience for the ignorance ahead
But only lust, its cold and grubby bed
And warlike dreams such images are fair.
When post coitus, vision strips me bare
And slaps me 'til I think I should be dead,
Then calmed and told me why I should have fled
An hour or two before I ceased to care,
Then you appear again, all motherly.
You stroke my salty cheeks and clamp my hand,
You almost sell tranquility to me
But always push it just a word too far
And send me off to pace some foreign land
Or seek repentance in a rage-filled car.