you’re like a critic/who wasn’t sent a presskitnyou can’t conceive of anything to writenyou’re like a trained dog/who wasn’t fed a biscuitnyou won’t perform for anyone tonightnnyou say you’re lonely/but you won’t let me visitnyou say you’re wounded/but you won’t let me kiss itnbut I can see/what you want from menby the way your eyebrows archnbut I’d rather have it watered downnthan thickened up with cornstarchnnyou’re like psychic/who says the future’s cloudynyou can’t predict how all of this will endnyou do a highkick/you hug me and say howdynI’m not convinced that you’re fit to be my friendnnyou say you’re weary/and all your sleep is fretfulnyou say you’re sorry/but you don’t look regretfulnand I can tell/there’s a parallelnbetween soldiers on the marchnas they overrun some border townnand the way you feed me…nnwho gets the backlash without all the hypengoing straight from green to overripe?nyou can fix me forever in your movable typenI would shout for assistance but you’re flooding my windpipe withncornstarchnnyou’re on your knees/in your powder-blue pajamasnI’m making scenes/you’re constructing dioramasnas you rehydrate/all your tears of hatenfrom their former state/as a concentratenso the flavor’s not so harshndo you like your gravy rich and brownnand thickened up with cornstarch?
Cornstarch
Nothing Painted Blue
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