Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls
until the iceberg comes,
we’ll spin tales about suicidal propellers
and we’ll lie naked for the lower classes
and we’ll make it count between cold crests.
until the iceberg comes,
we’ll taunt them rich sunsabitches
and we’ll dress like them, steal their jackets
and we’ll drag their women through the icy blues.
until the iceberg comes,
we’ll make new love in Model T Fords
and we’ll spin sick under electric orange lights
and we’ll run like pale rats through an iron-walled maze.
but when that iceberg comes, oh when that frozen chunk of humility comes, that tiny speck in an otherwise infinite ocean of circumstance comes, it comes hard, rips us a new one or two, fills our empty holes with a few precious hours of unexpected, impossible meaning, it comes when it comes so silent so deep in the dark, oh! when that iceberg comes, how it comes! how it comes! how it comes!