For every third woman I broke,
I got mine too, from a powerful fourth.
My terrible reward, unrushed and textbook.
This fourth woman cooked up deadly spirits,
She lost me for days on night trains and back-roads,
Soiled my art, defiled my temples.
Made me a god and a proper fool.
Right here underneath this bygone soul,
I hide her scores and insignia,
I hide my stains and broken arrows.
So that, for the next three future dearests,
Be ready sweet golden women,
For the ways I cannot love you well,
Be ready for the things you would never fully know,
That my bottle of fourth lovers is buried in the backyard.
That my leftover soul abides now with them too.
That there is a way to undo a careful man without punch.
My poorest sons, I find, never taste this defeat in their roaming,
They ritual constantly with the first triad of love bringers.
My clever nephews evade that cold ridiculous fourth woman.
But having lived my life of love in brief quarters,
I have them trapped in a small vodka bottle,
Saved in the powdery dark with the best of my loot,
Bury these with me, I tell my sons,
But never ever open that bottle.
The finest men spend this inoperable existence,
Lighting their dark with fourth women trapped in bottles,
Betting against excellent hope,
Biting their agony into jawbones,
Struggling with this heavy maleness,
With the salty sting of frozen manly eyes,
Eyes that should never cry,
To never again be lost in this terrible tempest.
While grander men, about us,
Die in the arms of smaller, insignificant lovers.