One of my turns

Day after day, love turns grey,

like the skin of a dying man.

Night after night, we pretend it's all right,

but I have grown older and you have grown colder

and nothing is very much fun any more.

And I can feel one of my turns coming on.

I feel cold as razor blade.

Tight as a tourniquet.

Dry as a funeral drum.

Run to the bedroom,

in the suitcase on the left

you'll find my favourite axe.

Don't look so frightened,

this is just a passing phase,

just one of my bad days.

Would you like to watch T. V.?

Or get between the sheets?

Or contemplate the silent freeway?

Would you like something to eat?

Would you like to learn to fly?

Would you like to see me try?

Would you like call the cops?

Do you think it's time I stopped?

Why are you running away?

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