Of Words
What a cliché you’ve made of me
And the epitome of every one;
If to gain the last word was to eat my own;
I’d gladly starve

We had an idiosyncratic routine,
You and I --
You’d tell the lies, and I’d believe them
Sweetheart
It’s lost it’s charm

So here I am
The undesirable (sch)muck
At the bottom of that well you’ve proudly spry;
Or a boot heel from the bowery

You’ve left me
Fumbling, stutter stepped
With nothing
But the ecstasy, and redundancy
Of words