These Fair Hands

by Nick Jaina

these fair hands that you adore
have done more harm than the mines off the Normandy shore
this tongue that you'd engage
takes its words from the understudy's page and I think

your god, your god
your god is just an old collage of quotes
my god, my god
my god is feeling his oats, he's feeling his oats

these same lips that you would trust
have told more lies than the spies in the Tripoli dust
this spine that keeps me straight
bends and breaks like the Rhine in its natural state

my god, my god
my god is just a kiss on Dostoyevsky's dice
your god, your god
your god is playing too nice, he's playing too nice