Inflammatory Writ
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Oh,
where
is
your
inflammatory
writ?
Your
text
that
would
incite
a
light;
'be
lit'
Our
music
deserving
Devotion
unswerving
Cried;
'do
I
deserve
her?'
With
unflagging
fervor
Well,
no
we
do
not,
if
we
cannot
get
over
it
But
what's
it
mean
when
suddenly
we're
spent?
-
tell
me
true
Ambition
came
and
reared
its
head
and
went
-
far
from
you
Even
mollusks
have
weddings
Though
solemn
and
leaden
But
you
dirge
for
the
dead
And
take
no
jam
on
your
bread
Just
a
supper
of
salt
and
a
waltz
through
your
empty
bed
And
all
at
once
It
came
to
me
And
I
wrote
in
hunch
'til
four-thirty
But
that
vestal
light
It
burns
out
with
the
night
In
spite
of
all
the
time
that
we
spend
on
it
Om
one
bedraggled
ghost
of
a
sonnet
While
outside
the
wild
boars
root
Without
bending
a
bough
underfoot
Oh,
it
breaks
my
heart
-
I
don't
know
how
they
do
it
So
don't
ask
me!
And
as
for
my
inflammatory
writ?
Well
I
wrote
it
and
I
was
not
inflamed
one
bit
Advice
from
the
master
Derailed
that
disaster
Said;
'hand
that
pen
over
to
me,
poetaster!'
While
across
the
great
plains
Keening
lovely,
awful
Ululate
the
last
great
american
novels
An
unlawful
lot
left,
to
stutter
and
freeze
floodlit
But
at
least
they
didn't
run,
to
their
undying
credit
Autor: Joanna Newsom
Autor tekstu: Brak
Autor muzyki: Joanna Newsom