The Cuckold’s Song

If this looks like a poem I might as well warn you at the beginning that it's not meant to be one. I don't want to turn anything into poetry. I know all about her part in it but I'm not concerned with that right now. This is between you and me. Personally I don't give a damn who led who on: in fact I wonder if I give a damn at all. But a man's got to say something. Anyhow you fed her 5 MacKewan Ales, took her to your room, put the right records on, and in an hour or two it was done. I know all about passion and honour but unfortunately this had really nothing to do with either: oh there was passion I'm only too sure and even a little honour but the important thing was to cuckold Leonard Cohen. Hell, I might just as well address this to the both of you: I haven't time to write anything else. I've got to say my prayers. I've got to wait by the window. I repeat: the important thing was to cuckold Leonard Cohen. I like that line because it's got my name in it. What really makes me sick is that everything goes on as it went before: I'm still a sort of friend, I'm still a sort of lover. But not for long: that's why I'm telling this to the two of you. The fact is I'm turning to gold, turning to gold. It's a long process, they say, it happens in stages. This is to inform you that I've already turned to clay.