my dove is not so innocent, it seems
perhaps a crow who rolled in dirty flour
with tone like rotted fish, instead of cream
and words so sickly sweet, my stomach sours

his hair, piss yellow, feels like drying straw
a vulture with sore throat hath better voice
and yet he sings until my nerves are raw
and stands askew without a trace of poise

mephisto* cannot have two eyes so blue
and surely doesn't whine his ass is fat
but my dove, ever faithful and so true
won't see he hath no remonstrance with that

no mind to me his many thorns and spines
my dove shall be the thoughts between my lines

* an oblique reference to a colleague

#01 :: 02.26.98

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