The Art Teacher and the Little Stallion

When you tucked my tails,

smoothed my hair,

on the steps of the Metropolitan

I was holding my breath,

hedging my bets,

heavy on speculation

that you were inviting me in

to wander the lengths of your hallowed halls,

to be lectured on the dangers

of sinking ships.

"I'll be quiet, sir. I won't say nothing at all."

But couldn't you just get lost in this watery grave?

Standing on the decks of sinking ships

hands on my shoulders

you're steering me.

But couldn't you just get lost

on the pitch and roll of these waves?

So many sailors lost to this drunken sea.

So says the ocean: "What's that got to do with me?"

I found you lost

in front of some spill of brilliant oils

all hemmed in by gilded frames

and filigreed names;

a blush of cooling flesh.

And then you say flip,

some general spill of devotion

all whistled through your crooked teeth.

I never noticed your crooked teeth.

You're crying but you've never met.

"Well, that's the point I guess.

You missed the point I guess."

I missed the point, I guess.

"Well here's my point I guess:

her back is broken she washed up a mess.

Well, here's my point I guess:

What's she got to do with me?

Well, here's my point I guess:

her back is broken and I run free."

Little stallion kicking up the sand:

run free.

The cockles aren't giving up their pearls

and this is free.

So many pearls, so many pearls, so many tossed off.

But couldn't you just get lost

on this swollen sea?

Standing on the deck of sinking ships,

hands on my shoulders

you're steering me.

But couldn't you just get lost

on the pitch and the roll and the sway?

So many sailors lost to this drunken sea.

So says the ocean: "What's that got to do with me?"

So many sailors lost to this drunken sea.

So many sailors lost to me...