Post by Robin on Dec 26, 2005 18:14:57 GMT -8
I'm particularly proud of this piece, but that's no reason for you to not post anything that could improve it! I know it has quite a few flaws, and I'd like to fix those.
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My dear Beulah, I have left you.
You must understand that I could not stay.
It is not because I was drafted to the army,
Or because my mother is ill,
But because I couldn't stand you.
Oh, dear Beulah, I do not hate you.
I do not hate you and your kind ways.
I do not loathe your expensive perfume,
Nor your taste in music,
But I hate the way you love.
Dear Beulah, you give yourself sparingly,
You call out 'I object' at my marriage to sweet paradise,
And I am not allowed to lift your nightgown higher than your waist,
Or fall down onto your breasts.
Oh, I hate the way you love.
Sweet Beulah, you smother me.
You kill me with your candied kindness.
It is not a hidden bitterness that you suffocate me with,
Nor is it enmity smothered like an infant in the crib.
No, it is kindness, Beulah,
You kill me quietly with your kindness.
Oh, beautiful Beulah, I love you.
But I do not love the way you love me back.
To you, I am your bleeding heart, to cultivate,
Your hollyhock to tend and groom as you please.
I am not a flower, Beulah,
You cannot keep me in your prettily painted pots.
Lovely, dear, Beulah, I have no recipe,
But you keep trying to mix in more of what pleases you.
A little sugar here, a little vanilla there, but that won't fix me.
I am not even broken, Beulah, but you keep taping me up.
I am not a torn dress, Beulah,
But you still keep trying to patch all my rips.
Darling Beulah, I would marry you.
But you have long been a married woman.
There's a ring on your finger, a gold one with little diamonds,
You can't see it, but I can, and I know who gave it to you.
You're wed to God, Beulah,
And when we love, you never stop thinking of him.
-----
My dear Beulah, I have left you.
You must understand that I could not stay.
It is not because I was drafted to the army,
Or because my mother is ill,
But because I couldn't stand you.
Oh, dear Beulah, I do not hate you.
I do not hate you and your kind ways.
I do not loathe your expensive perfume,
Nor your taste in music,
But I hate the way you love.
Dear Beulah, you give yourself sparingly,
You call out 'I object' at my marriage to sweet paradise,
And I am not allowed to lift your nightgown higher than your waist,
Or fall down onto your breasts.
Oh, I hate the way you love.
Sweet Beulah, you smother me.
You kill me with your candied kindness.
It is not a hidden bitterness that you suffocate me with,
Nor is it enmity smothered like an infant in the crib.
No, it is kindness, Beulah,
You kill me quietly with your kindness.
Oh, beautiful Beulah, I love you.
But I do not love the way you love me back.
To you, I am your bleeding heart, to cultivate,
Your hollyhock to tend and groom as you please.
I am not a flower, Beulah,
You cannot keep me in your prettily painted pots.
Lovely, dear, Beulah, I have no recipe,
But you keep trying to mix in more of what pleases you.
A little sugar here, a little vanilla there, but that won't fix me.
I am not even broken, Beulah, but you keep taping me up.
I am not a torn dress, Beulah,
But you still keep trying to patch all my rips.
Darling Beulah, I would marry you.
But you have long been a married woman.
There's a ring on your finger, a gold one with little diamonds,
You can't see it, but I can, and I know who gave it to you.
You're wed to God, Beulah,
And when we love, you never stop thinking of him.