(Your) Cheatin’ Heart

There’s a hole in my Stetson hat

My pocket’s got a hole in it

Thru which I travel to a cult comics store on

Rue Mouffetard

In the 6eme arrondisement of my grief

Yodel away Hank

I won’t recall your jumbo jet

From the morning skies of another man’s grief

Your silk-screened shoes are to small

To contain your tears

I don’t mind bringing you sandwiches, falafels,

We’ll spread them out on your lino floor

A smorgasbord of indecisiveness

Throw the rubbish into a hole in the floor

The window to your rubbber soul

I don’t mind

A stale baguette poking out of your Celine calfskin

Make a dress out of your shower curtains

I can now see your pubic hair

My favourite red pubic hair

The colour of rotten tangerines

I have come back to Paris again and again

In the banlieu of my suburban mind

I have to stop thinking

And let nature take its remedial course

Who will bring the sunshine?

Who will take the rain?

I know you didn’t mean it

But this time you didn’t wait for me to hang up

And I know this is just for starters

Gothic literature gives you the license to dream

Perchance, to dream of sustained misery in total silence

After six months you forget what makes you attractive to her in the first place

A pigeon pecks on an empty park bench

It was when you couldn’t stop instant messaging on your BlackBerry

When I asked you to please, pay attention to my whining

Like wearing Swear London shoes in a sea of Trippens

That’s me to you

Like being in the right milieu

In the wrong century

Every time.

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