I can diagnose the ailment of their teas
And yet it's hard to make them see....
There are no tongues to tell
To sing the truths and dwell
Upon nighttime reveries
And hatred pinned on jasmine teas
Too much sugar
Much too sweet
I can diagnose the ailment of their tea
And yet it's hard to make the close ones see
I walk the dirt-smeared streets
Little copper lovers frozen on little copper seats
And yet they are still closer to sharing their pain
Than I with any other brain
Oh and how must I then resume?
But to retreat to my lonely room?
To eat the burnt crust on my toast?
To love the ones I hate the most?
My stride is confident
But the pain at my hip is obstinate
And I have chosen this path
I have chosen this route
To hold it all in without letting them doubt
My Simon, my Simon
Where is my Simon?