Sylvia Plath

Verse 1
You were thin/white
Hanging at the Pale Horse
Trying hard to catch Thomas by his sleeve

Whenever you encounter ghosts
You're honor bound to say
"I cannot tell you what your work means to me"
No, I cannot tell you what your work means to me

Chorus 1
To watch a peacock sputter out
Hatching a menace in the intake
Of an Underwood, awash in anhedonia

Improper opprobrium
Of your self-immolation--
It kind of makes you lose your train of thought

Verse 2
Swallowing swords
Holed up in the old bar
Pulling your psyche back into a bun
Or follow furies into series of back rooms
To debatе the history of punk
No, I do not feel like getting

Chorus 2
I tracе the ramifications
Of the prevailing social tone of the age
Regarding chastity
And thank God, in her infinite wisdom
That the faint green of underwater
Complements my skin tone