HEN THE LAST POETS have wrapped themselves
in burial shrouds of pc and more than vaguely
perverted diction

When the songwriters cartel finds its compass smashed
its mainsail slashed
its public so trashed
That anything hinting
of true deep quiet emotion seems more like ancient history
or science fiction

When our writers, drunk with visions of movie contracts,
throw overboard all morality and proportion
Like White Star sailors
dismissing icebergs as contrary to the beliefs
of their sodality

These three words, "I Love You,"
will still be true
even if said or meant only from you to me
or me to you.

And that's reality.