Ophelia claims we're dead and gives me back
all my Frank Zappa and the Mothers albums.
I nearly claw out of my shell and say,
"You can't," but for a moment I've nothing
to quote. I'm rot, mortis of broken heart.
Hog wash! Lovers don't die of broken hearts.
Lovebirds perish because of broken heads,
the brain a windshield shattered by Why? Why?
Hairless, my head looks like a turtle shell,
puzzle pieces of me that now don't fit.
What can a turtle Hamster do but crawl?
Can't pull in my six flags like a castle.
I crawl away, neck poked out like a prick --
head broke, heart broke, but balls in perfect health.
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