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Poetry
Tekst piosenki
He adored the desk, its brown-oak inlaid with ebony, assorted prize pens, the seals of gold and base metal into which he had sunk his name.
It was there that he drew upon grievances from the people; attended to signatures and retributions; forgave the
death-howls of his rival. And there he exchanged gifts with the Muse of History.
What should a man make of remorse, that it might profit his soul? Tell me. Tell everything to Mother, darling, and God bless.
He swayed in sunlight, in mild dreams. He tested the little pears. He smeared catmint on his palm for his cat Smut to lick. He wept, attempting to master ancilla and servus.
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