Because it brings me dreams of green Those fillings between hop fields and farm lads Toiling with their flagons over shoulder and a mean Wage, hairy youth which sup on apples The trees in the wind with that summer pollen Breathing through worms and fruits of the morning Spurned through
Butcher boy you cut it to an act Some divine spark a mere and disgusting event In your fearful eyes and me some stunted stag, The gore of your knife-wielding hunter Splat on my little horns, mocking us both
Computers do strange things to your art You can’t rip a file I mean you can rip it off a cd apparently But you can’t tear it in half – you have to give it somebody Once something’s written down you can’t hide from the reality You either accept it
(a drunk normally writes too simply for anyone) It doesn’t matter but you didn’t come I barely asked you to but you didn’t You didn’t answer and you didn’t I sat for two hours with two beers You would disapprove I didn’t talk but I got some good reading Charles
Scag 