Wormtongue du jour Here, noir, reasons running Giving better judgment its rest Transmuting misdirection, miseducation As a Monday cup of Sundays' scraps of love Banshee dependably at the table Clear yourself from my shoulder For my lane needs clarity and edges and sweat I can walk the city of my own shadows Without the lights of your noise Mirrors cannot see my approach and I prefer Agency to any shorthand you're selling Forgive this control I sloe this gin, chew this beef, dance these hands Clasp these wildfires and save the love they hold Let's get apart and forget it could never happen Neck-to-neck, swan-to-bard; I cannot fly You cannot sing to me