O If We But Knew What We Do

It’s not the architect’s fault

That we know this when we hock

Our lips for thirty-two silver coins

When we buy the stage curtain

As the theater explodes

O we know this when we see

The director’s piano all afire

A kind of mournful tune

Always “Arabella” is what we hear

It smells sweet over the zoo of waves

It smells just like the paper-mill sends

Forth perfume for what lovers we

Can’t imagine we care to think

That we’d ever become or come back to

O panic of dry cadenzas opens our eyes

For what’s right at our fingertips

We loath the disinterest of the sexy stars

We hate forbidden words and defiant

Measures of our passion no one

Will ever have a right to understand

We make the moon hurt so much tonight

We make the moon laugh loose the seven

Stitches it got after we split its lips last night

We ain’t fucking around we mean business