I’ve been at this artistic discipline
at least a thousand days now, don’t you know?
And I can read and blush or groan or grin
at poetry I wrote some time ago,
except that I don’t want to see the stuff
composed in lust or out of anguish penned.
Of those emotions I’ve had quite enough
and if I can’t be cool, I can pretend.

So I don’t want a lyric made of this –
don’t expect that this will be a song.
I don’t need the mess that’s in a kiss
and if this is dishonest, then I wrong
myself and no one else, so stop expecting
effort from a mind that’s self-protecting.