SCREAM, IF THAT BE YOUR PLEASURE, TREASURE!
I’m exempt from the shards of broken glass that you call
Your gentle bedtime voice.
Where once my tongue was stamped with expletives
Borne from angst and extra long nights and days staring at walls,
Only meditation lies.
You may pin me down and shriek
Like you are calling the dead, but
I will not curl up into a ball for you.
I will as lie still as understanding.
We, The Tin Heads, rebel!
(Turn the following up as loud as it can go for a reasonable approximation of the joy is tin heads feel!)