We arrived somewhat late to the line.
She didn’t want what she wanted.
How should I read my song?
Nothing is nice for long.
Today in May is thirty degrees.
By middle age we are rotting fruit.
It’s cold. And something is wrong.
Nothing is nice for long.
The honey is gone. And the bees.
For a day they danced around our heads.
The aroma we announced was strong.
Nothing is nice for long.
She didn’t want what she wanted.
I believe she was forty three. That’s what it was.
I kept thinking I had done something wrong.
Nothing is nice for long.