I'm so beautiful
You really ought to hear me

But there is to be no spying
In this war room

I did all that I could
It wasn't good enough

To stave off your invasion
To save the beaches at least for the Holidays

The holidays
Are always such a time to make money it is

Such a shame this coast's been desecrated
Layered with crawling casualties

Shrapnel burns and the marks rise
Like dough

And scars run down my body
Like water

I feel warm as I rise
Certain I am going to Heaven

Lying here on this
Blood soaked beach

In these blood soaked sheets
I have never been this beautiful

I always disappear
In the face of the time you buy and

Little by little I think
I am dissolving still

i don't suppose i have to explain. one should never overexplain oneself. the worst thing is to become too bored. sadness has nothing on boredom. someone told me i was "kinda pathetic, actually" yesterday. i thought that was wonderful.
madeira, incidentally, is a red wine that comes from portugal, and (seperately) an island, which i am told is lapped by the waters of the gulf stream with warm, comfortable summers and mild winters that make it an enchanting holiday destination all year round, and in which rugged mountains with spectacular panoramic views contrast strikingly with the lush green of the countryside's vineyards, banana plantations and brilliant flashes of sub-tropical flowers.
i don't feel i must explain this, either.