What did I expect from poetry, anyway?—
all clinched up waiting for the bell to ring.
all clinched up waiting for the bell to ring.
I thought my poetry fixation
was just an adolescent fling—
when I was supposed to be studying, I was boo-hoo-ing “well-a-day,”
not expecting a hell of a lot from anything
when I was supposed to be studying, I was boo-hoo-ing “well-a-day,”
not expecting a hell of a lot from anything
in those days—I had no love to
cling
to; I’d lie in bed for days—
days my alarm clock would refuse to ring.
to; I’d lie in bed for days—
days my alarm clock would refuse to ring.
But then I became the victim of
a big sting
operation. They caught me red-handed, what could I say?
I’d been trying to get too much out of one thing,
operation. They caught me red-handed, what could I say?
I’d been trying to get too much out of one thing,
and it was a clinical
addiction, I decided, my maundering
after strange gods—instead of a romp in the hay—
waiting for the final bell to ring,
after strange gods—instead of a romp in the hay—
waiting for the final bell to ring,
to chime the hope my heart was
hazarding,
wake me up gladly to face the day.
Bob says, you shouldn’t expect too much from any one thing.
Isn’t it funny, that a bell rings in a ring?
wake me up gladly to face the day.
Bob says, you shouldn’t expect too much from any one thing.
Isn’t it funny, that a bell rings in a ring?
