Mary-Jane, Mary-Jane, the sweet-as-apple-pie, pink-cheeked bride
Crash through the dark, evergreen fields where your husband tries to hide
And carve the moon in your fingertips, hold his heart in your hands;
Feel the rushing river of his soul, of desires too dark
Mary-Jane, Mary-Jane, flutter those long-lashed, huge green eyes;
And simper prettily with a big, bright smile,
Soothe the breaks in his voice, the grey in his hair, the ache in his face;
Swish your white, silk dress as a bee sleeping in a flower.
Let your own cries wither and die under the navy blue gaze of the sky;
Allow the stars to dry your teary eyes,
And don’t you dare cry, don’t you dare cry.
Crouch down in the grass with his hands in your palm;
Soft, pale, gentle,
Cradle the broken man
Who spears your dreams with his piercing blue penetration.
Take those hands in yours, Mary-Jane,
And forget about the groves worn into your tender skin;
Take his hunger and absorb it into your shut throat,
And do not dare run away, Mary-Jane; do not dare run away.
Lace your white, velvet boots tightly so you scream in pain,
And tug the red laces so your hand turns a soulful shade of red.
Abandon your own road, Mary-Jane;
For the weeping friend beckons;
Watch the feather as it drops from the blackbird,
And watch the gaggle of guests blush in happiness;
Join the dancing green of the wearied herd.