Of mickle depth and surrogate associations
There is some thought that I inherit or so
It seems to me. My lapel ends turn out to
Be more grey than I had thought they would.
A little shaded touches would do. What say?
A tinge of cashmere whites or some red?
Like Macbeth I often want to wash it clean...
I would have delegate it to Raphael if only
I was in a different century And my soft
Hand perfection seems to fall short again.
I look around, weary and concerned,
At my reportoire of lofty magic shades -
And in my paraphernalia I find a void.
Just that, and nothing more to count up on.
A blatant song would do for me, for now
Or just a noisy stream of serrated reality.
I would give or take none and all this once,
So take a song and give me my obsequy.