Pour Prendre Conge
I’m sick of embarking in dories
Upon an emotional sea.
I’m wearied of playing Dolores
(A role never written for me).
I’ll never again like a cub lick
My wounds while I squeal at the hurt.
No more I’ll go walking in public,
My heart hanging out of my shirt.
I’m tired of entwining me garlands
Of weather-worn hemlock and bay.
I’m over my longing for far lands–
I wouldn’t give that for Cathay.
I’m through with performing the ballet
Of love unrequited and told.
Euterpe, I tender you vale;
Good-by, and take care of that cold.
I’m done with this burning and giving
And reeling the rhymes of my woes.
And how I’ll be making my living,
The Lord in His mystery knows.
