Lean further over my sullen halo
My charcoal harp cannot sing the glory of the birds
And when my god speaks only the rats hear
The unholy mamogram has shaken her to the roots

So I read her a black word on a sunny sunday
We talk of time too much for her to feel it with ghost hands
I told her I was a headhunter
And I showed her the heads
I thanked her for being angelic
And for making my bed
Boys are beasts
incapable of love
But I hand knitted our future
And cleaned the blood from the tub