It’s a wake-up morn, and all looks good
like another winter’s been withstood
and the day looks bright, and the sun’s come out
but you’re saying some stuff; what you talkin’ about?
Suggesting such subjects like moving away?
These are not phrases parsed everyday.
As if you could simply jump ship and set sail,
an impermanent mermaid, or a young humpbacked whale.
You can’t quit this place. It doesn’t sit right.
You belong here; you cannot just light
off to parts so unknown. This I cannot accept.
If you do such a thing. I would be left berept.
Do you see what has happened? Even the thought
of you leaving this town has gotten me caught
fully off of the rhythm of rhyming in time.
Like a limon-filled sprite bitterly absent lime.
"If you leave," OMD says, "I will pay the price."
Or did they? Who knows? My memory’s sliced
up in ribbons, a gibbering fool I’ve become
since you mentioned the chance that you might turn and run.
Oh, just quit this place; I really don’t care.
If it’s up to me: you’d move anywhere
and it wouldn’t matter; I’d be fine.
I’d be happy again some far day down the line.