Spring starts when a heartbeat's pounding When the birds can be heard above the reckoning carts doing some final accounting Lava flowing in Superfarmer's direction He's been getting reprieve from the heat in the frozen-food section
Don't tell me what the poets are doing Don't tell me that they're talking tough Don't tell me that they're anti-social Somehow not anti-social enough
And porn speaks to its splintered legions To the pink amid the withered cornstalks in them winter regions While aiming at the archetypal father He says with such broad and tentative swipes "Why do you even bother?"
Don't tell me what the poets are doing Don't tell me that they're talking tough Don't tell me that they're anti-social Somehow not anti-social enough
Don't tell me what the poets are doing On the street and the epitome of vague
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