JANE WHITFIELD IS DEAD by THOUGHT INDUSTRY [I) July 10th, 1993] Jane's clenched legs writhe. Soot dress dance flannel sheets. Inane lush that can't decide, but I'm snared here. I wake flustered in her bedroom that I can't escape. I weep here's something that can never change. This marriage is make believe. Cook slop meal; and sew t-shirt; and wash my plate; and make bunk bed. I never asked these things, because Jane's now dead. Jane's found dead, long dead. Left me to this lonely bed. Hoard of locust mad. [II) September 17th, 1995] Jane floats down the aisle. Voluptuous cream wedding dress. Family and friends tight smiles. Razor near. "I do," and I promise on the bottle lover's grave. She sighs, "our timeless loyalty is branded change." This marriage is make believe. Mow front lawn; and wash sports car; and cut slab wood; and pain garage; but we're not a sexist pair. Because Jane's now dead. Because Jane's been dead. Because Jane's found dead, long dead. Stranded to this frigid bed. Pacific bottom sad. I'll mourn her softly [III) May 3rd, 2043] A-frame by Winchester stream. Trimmed hedge with daisies. Fields. Stained plank ceder fence. My gramps' ponies. She'll shit a brick. I bet. Our house to raise a family. She'll shit. I bet. We'll grow old together. Snail slow and ancient gray. Racquetball on tuesday morning. Playing eucker. Sipping tea; and watch the sun die from our rocking chairs. We'll gum sweet oatmeal holding dishpan hands. She'll shit a brick. I bet. To watch our children married. She'll shit. I bet. To see us when we're ninety, sleeping in on church sunday. Playing our dated CD's that we bought in my twenties. [IV) January 25th, 2051] This marriage is make believe. Now I'm crying on her body as she passed away without me, and left me this bitter old man; because Jane's now dead, because Jane's been dead. Because Jane's found dead. My wife's now dead. My wife's found dead. Jane's left dead. [ www.dailyrics.com ] JANEWHITFIELDISDEAD by THOUGHTINDUSTRY