I bleed my emotion    through the push of a pen   on the tear stained surface    of your pale parchment skin,   on the napkins of Irish bars    while my pint glass is weeping.   So, my words start to wander    like the thoughts that ushered them.   You won't go down without a fight.    My failed defense lends its plight.   But, this radio song says you'll be mine.    In tomorrow's trenches you'll reside.   Armed as bedside's angels,    with desire comes despair.   Up in arms in passion's throws,    a memory dares compare.   To silence a siren's song,    I search for peace of mind   through the luggage packed    from a lover's past    who occupies my meantime.   You won't go down without a fight.    My failed defense lends its plight.   But, this radio song says you'll be mine.    In tomorrow's trenches you'll reside.