Ophelia

Put me on the train, I can hardly speak, my mouth is like a drain, forget these sunlit avenues, it's my roof that leaks, buckets of torrid news, Paris or Marseilles, everywhere they treat, turns truth into fake, pray I won't see you soon, before my hair is grey, forget your Provence rooms, mark you well this day, when my crazy inner deeds, all come out to play, bourganville blooms, by a station at Nice, it doesn't carry fortune, what is there to say, love burns at ninety degrees, my prayers are forsaken, can you hear the sea?