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I’m sorry that I’m late.
I went blind.
I got confetti in my eyes.
I was held up at yesterday’s parties.
I was needed on the Congo line.

But my dear, oh, my dear,
I’d like to fight the good fight for another couple of years.
Because to say the war is over is to say you are a widow.
And you’re not a widow yet…

So this one’s for the critics and their disappointed mothers,
and for the cupid and the hunter shooting arrows at each other:
Ain’t no such thing as a saint, ain’t no such thing as a sinner.

But there’s a swan among the pigeons of Barcelona’s floor.
There’s a Samson with Delilahs lining up outside the door.
If you are sharpening your scissors,
I am sharpening my scissors,
and I am sharpening my sword.
So you can take me to the dragon’s lair,
or you can take me to Rapunzel’s windowsill.
Either way it is time for a bigger kind of kill.

I see your face when I close my eyes.
I see the muscles in your legs from the way you always rise
to the occasion of catching things that fall,
like the statuettes on pedestals I tend to build to tall.

But I have navigated Iceland,
I laid my claim on Portugal,
and I have seen into the wasteland
of the future of us all.

And I kicked up a whole country of dead, dead leaves last fall…

Seen from the back of a train
I rode away from your station,
they drifted in the air
like memoirs of old conversations,
sprung from a leather case you opened in the wind,
to watch the papers chase each other into oblivion.

You’re such a champion.
I hide behind your sun.
You are the champion…

So you can take me to the dragon’s lair,
or you can take me to Rapunzel’s windowsill.
Either way it is time for a bigger kind of kill…

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