Martine

Is this really the place, to ask the reason why, my love's ashamed, the haze of loss and show, he beats out his time, nowhere else to go, soaked on an island main, desolate in his cry, he always tries to calculate, what I need to know, no longer beats the sky, wooden box or one-way blow, when he jumps rail, boxcar irons safe to climb, eschews the spikes of jail, his lips won’t go, near this sweetheart’s tie, witness the gentle furrow, no easy way to fake, what hurts him deep inside, takes it to his grave, eyes open wide.