Oh, where is your inflammatory writ Your text that would inside a light be lit Our music deserving devotion unswerving Cry "Do I deserve her?" with unflagging fervor Well, no we do not if we cannot get over it And dylan But what's it mean when suddenly we're spent, tell me true Ambition came and reared its head and went far from you Even mollusks have weddings, though solemn and leaden But you dirge for the dead and take no jam on your bread Just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed And all at once it came to me And I wrote in hunch 'til four-thirty But that vestal light It burns out with the night
In spite of all the time that we spend on it On one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet While outside the wild boars root Without bending a bough underfoot Oh it breaks my heart I don't know how they do it So don't ask me And as for my inflammatory writ Well, I wrote it and I was not inflamed one bit Advice from the master derailed that disaster He said "Hand that pen over to me, poetaster!" While across the great plains keening lovely and awful Ululate the lost Great American Novels An unlawful lot left to stutter and freeze, floodlit But at least they didn't run, to their undying credit