the black leather skirt doesn't fit with the roses
the smell of the pear trees don't fit with your poses
sunshine with dark lips
blue skies with black hips
hand sized bruises where the big man held you

your lap dog
salivating, pink gums shining
leaves a trail of slime as evident as a snail's
step by step, pausing
wondering if the vision he follows
leavign behind her a scent of perfume and bodily secrets
the vision he follows;

are you real? he asks, questions
they can't be solved by your sessions
paint nails with grass
white clouds with white ass
out and open where the big man knelt you

what did you do in the grove, cecelia?
what did you do in the quidcunx of trees?
why did you kneel before god, ophelia?
why did you get on your gravel-bruised knees?

what, did you think he would pray?
at the end of the day, all that's left is you
what, did you think he would stay?
at the end of the day, your zeus he left you

did you believe, you ask yourself
that the swan would stay once the blossoms had fallen
the bruises appeared and the pears had broken
hit the ground and bruised
swollen as the scanvangers picked at them

you fell from the tree, darling, they tell you
what, you ask, bruised both hips?
there was no-one else there, darling, they tell you
what, you ask, is this a virgin birth?

the son is a real boy, the son is a nice boy
grows up like his mother taught
wears what his mother bought

sings the songs he learnt is the night
staring at the moon