Saint
She's worthless now
He's taken the money and run-
Her strawberry blonde hair
Should just fall right out
As she washes up
Along the shores of
The country of Saint...
They don't even believe in saints,
But he smiles just the same.
So that color of her hair was right for England,
But she's off that island
And doesn't want him to
Mistake her for the goddess
He tries to forget.

He wakes everyday
Telling himself that regret is a sin,
And he would never sin.
He is a perfect Christian boy,
Just like all the other boys
Named after saints
In Great Britain's Catholic schools.
He shampoo's his hair
Scrubbing his skull fiercely
Like you would scrub a pesky mosquito bite.

He doesn't even have to tell himself
To forget, anymore.
It's automatic.
She doesn't even want to look
At a reflection of
The midnight sky on the English Channel
In her hair.
The strands that softly lap against her face
Are no longer Irish,
Or maybe they never were.

1998