DISCLAIMER: This is my response to T.S. Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock". Not the same poem. Eliot's work can be found here, and is highly recommended reading: http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html
they don't know the first thing about you -
literati, scholars, readers and
rubberneckers
put you under and let the blood run out
leeches on your eyes and neath
your fingernails
a sterile caress, through a glove
before they tear you from yourself bit from bit,
try to reconcile the pieces and
failing
mourn your loss.
what you needed was a friend
something gentle with edges fading into space
undefined and unthinkable
because you can't think you can't you
mustn't
your legs may move but your mouth need not
it will come
if we just lay our sweet heads back and
darling
darling sing with me
forget that overwhelming question
