Come sit with me here at the bar.
Another Lethe for the bride.
You’re pregnant? Well, of course you are!
Make that a Virgin Suicide.
 
Me and my man, we tried a spell,
A pharmacopoeia of charms,
And yet…When I am lonesome, well,
I rock the stillborns in my arms.
 
This place is dead—a real dive.
We’re past all twists, rewards and perils.
But what the hell. We all arrive.
Here, have some pomegranate arils.
 
I heard an old wives' tale above
When I was a girl with a girl’s treasure.
The story went, Soul married Love
And they conceived, and called her Pleasure.
 
In Anhedonia we take
Our bitters with hypnotic waters.
The dawn’s always about to break
But never does. We dream of daughters.