I heard you sing the other day. Too sharp ‘cause of all that pain you let ring around the drain. I thought to myself, “I’ll give your aching heart a hand, but you never seem to understand.” And this isn’t a love poem. I don’t wish you were in my bed and I can get you out of my head, but it is a poem. Maybe ‘cause that’s all I’m good at. Maybe ‘cause it’s a language that you speak fluently. You’re from across the pond and you’re words are like bombs we used to drop like pesticides over green fields of budding corn without planning or prejudice. Now there’s so much hesitance.