Tin-Foil Swords Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Words that are lost can’t fill my pain:
Man of Arms can never be He-man, Erin:
What is wrong with your brain,
The paint by number figurines, Erin:
I am not even nearly as beautiful as your brain:
Tell me of your soul, let the wet paint run in the rain,
Erin:
Did your first love break your soul when he broke your
Hymen:
I knew you in Latin class when you were still virginal,
And even then I knew what you would be doing;
And I am not beautiful, Erin:
I could never proceed through the pictures you
Break yourself in;
You are a starlet Erin: You shine- You are very bright,
And yet you don’t wear any man’s ring;
Is it the muscles of the gym which impress you, Erin?
I wish I could be more beautiful for you;
I wish I could be starlight; I wish I could be the bravery of your
Flag,
Erin: There are houses that are vacant that need children and
Your touch,
But I don’t think I can love you again after the flowers I gave
You have died like stillborn children;
After I had loved you that much, and you just stepped aside,
And kissed your pillows,
And gave the hunches of your game to the he-men of the story,
The pilferers of late night dragons,
While I could do nothing more than swing my lousy tin-foil
Swords and masturbate to dead writers
Who all together couldn’t resurrect you from your egg sucking
Hutch.