The traditional honeymoon
has been a long time over
for he and she. In fact for years.
Husband no more her lover,
he's down at the pub.
Loss has replaced both's gain.
She's got the kitchen and bedroom
for a ball and chain.
The bed in which to sleep,
the bed in which to dream.
Or the bed in which to lie
and listen to the rain teem.
Upon bayonets babies perished.
Children's heads smashed against trees.
Adults lined along dug graves.
Dug by themselves. Death's release
came from rifles not far behind.
Cambodia's killing fields of a Pol Potty mind.
Girl we'll go romancing
down the streets beneath a moon.
I'll bring you back dancing
from the ball to the bedroom.
And find no lowering of the tone
to say we'll make a music all our own.