c. by ruejacobs 10/29/09 12 AM
Let me repeat it.
As futile as it is.
The language you speak is not my own.
You talk of turmoil, oh venomous one,
The way one would describe darkness to the blind
Iíve been following along here in my hymnal
While you, the unaware composer, tapped your wand to keep time
So donít complain if you canít dance to it now
Itís all I had to go on
You approach me, Eurytheus
With your grubby misspelled list
Itís a bloody wonder
I havenít clubbed you to death by now
Get on with it, you tell me?
So I say
And that is why we cannot communicate.
My words mean nothing to you.