ALRIGHT so it actually goes like this:

THE BLUE GARDEN LANGAUGE Chorus #1: Wont you help me? Live the Jack and Maggie dream? Where I welcome you to the new day, with a simple kiss one that matters one that can mold into vapor all the way through your ignorant,- no more, less.... inexperienced temple So close to your ear- I'll scream to love you while your beautiful blue eyes are growing inside me and I could paint our chairs red and our mattress will rest on the floor for what it matters- I could write for you pages with sonets mixed in and we would no less than blend you Are the fire and Im the brick that contains you we'll become the envy of our railroad town every night they'll watch our shadows fall into each other and wonder... and no one can push me out of your mind even with our dirty gutters or cotton on the clothes line- Because it has to be real somewhere, you can be that for me and I can write the script for one of those perfect fantasys one we'll never have to snap out of CHORUS #2: When I dream of Blu, I think Mexico City and dug out cribs. Where there's a picture on the wall of a red chair, its something to hope for. -Or later in the desert where filterless smoke never leaves the crooked shaped windows. And her saint comes in black, white, and a bow tie tied like cloves. And here, her hair is orange with fantastic curls and melon, and rum is good for us, and she plays the piano, for her miscarried sister, who we carried through Mexico City to Casalblanca. -We named her Jezebel, for the fairies we believed in, and her stolen dress she never got to wear... and love, I didnt realize, fairies cant hold their liqour. CHORUS #3: Last morning I tried to teach myself to write about something surreal and me, but with Kerouac style, without the "woo-hee-haws" and italian dialect in parenthises. No love, Im not mocking you, you know your my universal jealousy. I thought,-I should write about anything I want, and hope the blue garden language will just come to me. I could write about something I know, like thoughtless makes serene, but what do I know? And Jack certainly isnt going to revise my thoughts for me. So I thought: I consider myself an insubordinate and my ex a true infidel, how do I show I'm angry? but what else should matter but instant thought. And when rain on tin or newborn clouds inspire, what should I do with it? Through this I feel so institanious, so worthless, I feel so ignorant to everything I hoped for. I hoped for a novel. And an ailment to tell something through. Relay my stories in a delerious manner. Make people wonder if my stories are true. As they feed me my soup, they'll ask me why I shaved my head and eyebrows, and I'll reply, "well love, I was only trying to prove a point."