My Honeysuckle Baby
My honeysuckle, baby.
Baby, you’re my honeysuckle.
You’re my Honeysuckle Baby.
My Honeysuckle Baby, baby.
From the bush I pluck you,
Put your tart body to my lips,
And draw your sweetness in with my mouth.
My Honeysuckle Baby—that’s what you are.
The baby from whom I get delectable honey.
What fine sweetness through that nice honey.
Fine, fine sweetness, my Honeysuckle Baby.
The honey is you, baby.
The sweetness is yours, honey.
You’re my honey, but you share your sweetness.
And that’s why I keep going to the bush.
And sucking it in: your great sweetness…
The Memory Train (Train, Train, Mammery-Memory)
Stopping at all of the stations throughout the continental
Dropping off the current vestiges of emotion to pickup
the full-length experience of Back When,
Boarding the lingering tastes, remaining touches, the
salvaged of the broken, the recalled of the forgotten,
Loaded and situated,
Primed and ready for departure,
Bringing together and forming previous grandeur—
Undisturbed, as if nothing broke the contented idleness,
New, just as once was,
Resilient with untested courage,
Happy in thoughtless myopia:
It’s gaining speed, this memory train,
It’s gathering the momentum which will bring us all the
way here to the past.
The memory train,
An itinerary conveying the scheduled stops of fleeting
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