She tasted like the last puff of a cigarette
already used
but who am i, but a beggar
with no right to choose?
she wrote french love notes
and wore lilac in her hair
beaconing for a lover
who was no longer there
he played her for fiddle strings
but it sounded like a harp
this and that, this and that
the melodies of the heart
i stood and watched
my cup aside
listening and waiting
to see what the fates decide
o filthy son of poverty
graceless and depraved
if you do not make for yourself a home
you make yourself a grave
if only i could comprehend, what had been said
and not ask for it, to be repeated
if only you goddess, take my weary head
and make your bosom for me, a bed
it wouldn’t be home
and only i would know
few men choose when to die
fewer still do it alone
she tasted like cherry cola
and marijuana
I am a beggar, loving her still
fighting for a right to choose
what do i have to lose?
Little Borrowers 