I’ve been at this artistic discipline
at least two thousand days now, don’t you know?
And I can find and read and groan or grin
at poetry I wrote five years ago.
Except I never want to see the stuff
that I in lusting yearning mood then penned.
Of those emotions I’ve had quite enough,
and if I can’t be cool, I can pretend.

So I won’t make a lyric out of this –
you won’t find pathos in this little song.
I’m not in line for love’s hot messiness,
and if this is dishonest, then I wrong
myself and no one else, so stop expecting
effort from a mind that’s self-protecting.