Thursday, January 22, 2009
You want me to translate.
Words of joy, words of sorrow, words dewdrop fragile, words of hope that dance on the breeze.
I refuse. No, I wont.
Shan’t. Tweedle-dee. No. Nada.
But you’re good. Very good.
Sam, dam, dand, bhed- you try it all, so lightly, that gracious touch.
(No- I can’t translate that. Somewhat means- by all means fair or foul.)
I’m stubborn. Not an inch.
No, its not particularly tough.
No, not a scab issue; this little birdie long became a filthy hawk.
I dunno- but won’t.
Then you use that golden allure. Your contacts.
What a lovely tantalizing thread.
A shortcut to “apply apply, no reply”.
Quid pro quo. No free lunch.
You know I’m hungry for that one chance.
But I won’t budge.
I’m stubborn that way.