Hey Sylvia, blasted woman undead,
can we at least talk about this?
I’m squirmin’ under those burnin’ eyes,
Over dinner I never quite know
how to apologize, though
we’re having dictionaries,
but I swear I tried to know
why a poem’s a potato.
Hey Sylvia, where were you
when I was a virgin in a tree,
You weren’t laughing me down then,
sliding over your lazy disapproval
like a bowl of soup you’d had enough of.
Because you were dead, dropped the spoon,
but you’re still speaking in the same tongues
I waste time trying to learn every date night
with you, when I should be out.
Hey Sylvia, maybe you should’ve been out?