What a bitter to-fro catastrophe br Spoken cleanly on the tongue br And yet lost all the same br When the silence draws in. br When we riddle we wonder, br When we’re frank we’re insane, br When honest we falter, br When coaxed we begin br To speak truths much less happy, br Because in spite of ourselves br We enjoy what we splinter br And treasure the blame. br We sit on cold nights br And prey for the warmth, br Yet were we to find it, br We’d always want more. br Such is the parallel br In our frivolous games, br Do not entreat me to comment, br I have nothing to say. br Blame one on the other, br Or find me a thing, br I like life when it’s crooked br Because then it’s a game.