He destilled his pain repetitively.
It might have read pen.
He had scratched that out.
He distilled his pain...
He distilled his pain...
There was no point.
Just a dull throb...
Was there no way to rub that out?
Just pain,
Which kept him up,
And she let it drop.
No borrowed blades.
No resumption.
No conclusion.
 |
| Dorothy Parker |
No beating about the bush,
Dorothy,
Don't you go and dress it up now.
Only colour,
Only colour,
Will do.
