on a dirty june morning,
your hand lies, outstretched
on the dirty june grass,
my mind is a mess.
if i were to take your hand within mine,
id sooner die than have my heart stolen
with suprise
when you snatch it back and awfully lie
about the necessity of leaving my dirty june side
and in that moment when you're gone,
shattered in pieces, my soul sings a song
to the dirty june morning, and i'll play along
that i never loved you on this dirty june morn
so i won't take your hand
but i won't leave your side
because id rather be dead
than to leave you to die
this poem is dedicated to you.
