Forgive me, it is what I made of you
In squalls, in Mardi Gras and ballyhoo.
I am not pretty, and my tits, she said.
Are small and freckled, and my mind is dead.
Forgive me, it is what I made of fate
In faith and confidence. I celebrate
Your deceased mind, your spare and speckled chest;
You are the kind of girl that I like best.