The Februarians

And when the time is right, you'll tell him?
And if he's in need, you'll hold him?

Make a promise now, and I will make you up

a bed. 'Cos that's all we've really got at the end of the day --
our word(s).
I will hold you to yours. I will hold you, too.

A mouth is no place for secrets, like a blasphemer
under a church pew. We know exactly where to look

when we want vindication. We are the Village Lynch Mob,
so open up and give us your babies. Babies?
They don't stay little forever, best to nip

the problem in the womb. Purity is a word, yes --
but it means little these days. It means naivety and

forgiveness. We have no need for such things, 'cos

we like the Dark and the Wrong. And the Mistake?
Don't even get us started. We've got one foot in the bag
and are going for the gold. So spill your cranberry

juice down my collar, stick your thumbs in my jeans
and pull me close. Belt me with a buckle and suck

my mouth dry. It's all about subterfuge, and knee socks

make the perfect disguise when the rest is bare
and shaking with nerves. Shaking with longing
and regret and every other desperate syllable

we can think of. And we will not be nervous,
we will be like conquistadors. Or comfortadors.

I listened to your album seven times last night.