MRS. FORTESCUE
Mrs. Fortescue, she won’t integrate--her coefficients skew to a different interest rate
On the ice or in the fire, there’s no emotion she won’t fake--all she needs is one spare tire and a roll of masking tape
Mrs. Fortescue, she won’t propagate--one too many barbecues that she was forced to curate
One too many preacher’s sons, out there in the dying barn--one too many loaded guns, waiting with open arms
But if by chance you find her misplaced proton/I’m sure she won’t mind/if you throw it away/it’s so yesterday/She’s not in the mood for all these cowboy songs/She’s walking through Wickenburg on the backs of fallen birds that refuse to be used as symbols/She’s dancing in Ehrenberg with all hopelessness deferred until she hears the knocking on (breaking of) her window
Mrs. Fortescue, she won’t correlate--on her designated pew she refracts and undulates
Seeking polarities on wind-eroded trails--tracing filigrees and reading undelivered mail
Mrs. Fortescue, she won’t cooperate--a womb without a view, a seed that can’t germinate
In silence she decries those needles that oscillate--waiting for her turn on the cross, this could be her lucky break
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