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Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service

de T. S. Eliot

It happened a week ago tonight
Fuzzy frankness, under the unsightly yellow lights
And the display of your seemingly submissive heart
It's always over before it fucking starts

And I'm not one to gush, I'm not prone to sensitivity
We just wedge 3,000 miles or that I've got my whole life ahead of me
And maybe you're just wary or maybe I am just naive
But we'd never agree

We yield to a feared and fateful clash
Or heartache or overwrought whiplash
And these roles develop circumstantially
You'll be my fodder, I'll be your reverie

And I'm not one to gush I'm not prone to sensitivity
We just wedge 3,000 miles or that I've got my whole life ahead of me
And maybe you're just wary or maybe I am just naive
But we'd never agree
And maybe it's my fault, I can't cut the tie, I'm a masochist
60 Hours, chased around and one elusive sidewalk kiss
And I'm not sure what I expected, but I couldn't bear to hear that this
Is something you won't miss

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