Sit alone on a sunny afternoon, in a rusting swing,
Trying to find that soft voice, that one sweet thing.
This playground’s seen better days, made closed off.
A burnt sacrifice of leaves refused, God is still wroth.
Kristen is coming on her motorbike; we’ll get a beer.
Want she wants, what I need, is never at all been clear.
Kristen may go to Paris; can Skype with Thai boyfriend.
I cannot touch her face with her close, screen’s no end.
God is silent, but I feel his displeasure, his impatient vice.
The nagging itch in long shed skin his rhetorical device.
I hear Kristen coming, howling motors, fear and dread.
To be happy and pure all affection must be left unsaid.