The Last Lush

You extend your lion clawson the small drinking tableand write the gentlest love poemeven though your laughter’s licentiousnessmakes people imagine the worst

Your blood is filled with conflictsI can’t say for sure if you’re a chief’s sonbut your hair smells of lambskinYou’re fated to become a mental patientbecause grassland shadows will make you whinnywith sorrow your whole life