Strange how that song became an anthem
of ache and of yearning, or anyway
about some such sentiment.
It irks me, to be honest, how it seems to borrow
its cloudy meaning —pretend a depth of feeling.
The guitar hook: without question a knockout —killer.
Yet, I think it’s about there one stops actually attending
to the lyrics. Though the voice is heart-felt, convincing
somehow, parse the words, do your damnedest to follow
the syntax, establish some semantic sense and you’ll see.
It’s like you’ve come upon the scene of a child’s game,
one played with disparate dangerous playthings.
A kid’s toy cap pistol, a fifth of bourbon, book of matches
a name written on its folded-back cover. That dried rose.
Tom Driscoll Writing 