How I Care About Your Little Black Sandals

You have buttons: buttons,
Buttons,
And your friend shot himself in the head:
In autumn, your buttons will turn
Venal and consumptive.
I will drink and there will be no wish to continue,
But if you let me continue down,
Then I will get all the way down to you,
Down to your buttons;
Of course, they haven’t yet turned off,
And I am in real trouble, but
I am a real troubadour:
Let me be your Sancho Panza!
Let me be your Sancho Panza!
And I will have razor blades and red lasers
And x-ray vision.
What you’re doing isn’t cruel.
What you’re doing isn’t cruel- we can still dance
As ghosts,
I suppose: I suppose, and there are fretful vampires
Yet in Norway,
And great cerulean bouquets of flowers with their own
Minds, which I guess is all you deserve,
And I want to be down into the clefts of your fjords,
Clefts of your fjords,
And sell cars with my tongue, sell cars with my tongue for
You:
Oh,
Even if you aren’t yet in Michigan, I play for you,
I play for your daughter and her titular muse:
My muse:
Set off on airplanes and fireworks, because I am lying down
Now
And aren’t you all that:
And aren’t you all that, and we graduated from the same
Sweltering state,
But you couldn’t care…. You couldn’t care:
Oh,
God… how I care….