Where’s my baby girl?
Working theory’s
she doesn’t exist

Where’s the one
who understands?
Best guess is
I’m lying

Where’s the
cute little thing
built to carry
half my heart
and all my song
?
I think
she
is a ghost
who’s haunted
the moorlands
these six long
centuries

Where’s someone for me?
Most reasonable explanation’s
that
I wasted my youth
on madness and delusion
and now the Hurt
will bleed on through
and seal me up
like a fly in spider
webbing
and they’ll find me
dead alone
with the TV on

Where’s my baby girl?
Working theory is
she’s too sensible
to sign the contract–
it’s full of
cruel clauses

Where’s my baby girl?
She’s too good and wholesome
to throw herself away on
an old rhino
panting its last breaths
in the high savannah sun
she’s a nice girl
a good girl
she’ll slip
on by

The world is made of
tinsel
it’s gotten in
her hair
I just want to see
her smile
then I’ll
go out
in the moonlit night
walk through the canyon
where scrub brush
polka-dots
wind-raked
sands