It's You My Love, You Who Are

You Can Say That I've Grown Bitter But Of This You Can Be Sure. The Rich Have Get Their Channels In The Bedrooms Of The Poor. And There's A Mighty Judgement Coming But I May Be Wrong.

Out Of The Thousands Who Are Known Or Who Want To Be Known As Poets, Maybe One Or Two Are Genuine And The Rest Are Fakes, Hanging Around The Sacred Precincts, Trying To Look Like The Real Thing.

Children Show Scars Like Medals. Lovers Use Them As Secrets To Reveal. A Scar Is What Happens When The Word Is Made Flesh.

May Everyone Live, And May Everyone Die. Hello, My Love, And My Love, Goodbye.

I Want History To Jump On Canada's Spine With Sharp Skates.