Breakfast Song

My love, my saving grace,

your eyes are awfully blue.

I kiss your funny face,

your coffee-flavored mouth.

Last night I slept with you.

Today I love you so

how can I bear to go

(as soon I must, I know)

to bed with ugly death

in that cold, filthy place,

to sleep there without you,

without the easy breath

and nightlong, limblong warmth

I’ve grown accustomed to?

—Nobody wants to die;

tell me it is a lie!

But no, I know it’s true.

It’s just the common case;

there’s nothing one can do.

My love, my saving grace,

your eyes are awfully blue

early and instant blue.