Amanda Palmer - Broken Heart Stew

Oh, how delightful!
Don't mind if I do
help myself to a cup of this broken heart stew.
I'm alarmingly hungry, I realize,
and moved by the pleasent aroma
and the bloody-red hue.
Cooked from scratch from a base, still fast-feeding and blue,
Stir in nursery rhymes, beets, and bouillon cubes.
Add potatoes and eggplants,
and slowly infuse with a bag of red wine,
bits of me,
bits of you.
And I'm sure this is healthy,
as I'm sure that it's true that roses are red, and violets are ... violet.
As I sit here alone at this table for two,
scribbling words to myself, and conversing with food.
As I sit here alone at this table for two,
realizing that perhaps you're not actually coming. You're not coming.
and maybe tonight, I'll have to sleep alone again,
even though I'd much rather be held.
And then maybe, we only try to fall in love to have something to do,
but what a lonely, what a tasteless and bitter excuse
when you're starving to death,
even fingers will do.
Cutting out our own organs and limbs to make fuel
for a ship that's set sail with an underfed crew,
and the paperboy's there,
and the butcher,
and you.
And you navigate, lost in your vessel of glue,
through banana peel vinyl, and driftwood and muse,
tossing violently in your sleep,
as you move through this simmering ocean
of broken heart stew