By John G. Drummond   omar@allwrong.com
Date: 17 June 1999

s w e e t

                So sweet it is you say that he said she felt
                like velvet--   but let me tell you just one
                thing, child; he don't know the smell of you
                like I do.  He don't know them blue eyes and
                maniacal shifting grin and certainly not the
                way your hair feels between fingers.
        
                You wander catlike round my room, picking up
                things and playing with them, a nervous type
                of curiosity sparks your white skin, while I
                just try and think of something I can say to
                turn your head around;  make you bloody well
                notice the difference between he and I:
                
                That my words are for you, when I write them
                such, and his are merely chimeras for you to
                dream up late at night.  Me, I'm no ghost...
                I'm a flesh-and-blood boy who thinks perhaps
                he doesn't quite know the way to handle him-
                self around strange lovely women who haven't
                outgrown the tendancy to idolize songwriters
                and singers who make it into the news; as if
                any one of them had more to say than I...
        
                write this with the notes in my head, if you
                sit down and listen, you will hear, love.