My lover despises lyrics. Or more to the point,
the lie of claiming any long-haired loser’s logic
syncs up perfectly with the glory, the rosy noise,
the soaring love signed in ink on your heart.
Instead, she insists on the ring of truth, corny
or uncouth. She’d rather you sling your own
orgy of images, groan from your groin, sling
your own silk, cling to cogs you are spinning.