Boys only want love if it's tortureDon't say I didn't say, I didn't warn yaBoys only want love if it's tortureDon't say I didn't say, I didn't warn ya

Rose garden filled with thorns

But you'll come back each time you leave'Cause, darling, I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream

Wait, the worst is yet to come, oh, no

Cherry lips, crystal skiesI could show you incredible thingsStolen kisses, pretty lies

Find out what you wantBe that girl for a month

But I've got a blank space, babyAnd I'll write your name

Got a long list of ex-loversThey'll tell you I'm insane

It'll leave you breathlessOr with a nasty scar

'Cause we're young and we're recklessWe'll take this way too far

'Cause you know I love the playersAnd you love the game

They'll tell you I'm insane'Cause you know I love the players

Got a long list of ex-loversThey'll tell you I'm insane

You can tell me when it's over, mmhIf the high was worth the pain

So it's gonna be foreverOr it's gonna go down in flames

Grab your passport and my handI can make the bad guys good for a weekend

So hey, let's be friendsI'm dying to see how this one ends

Ain't it funny rumors flyAnd I know you heard about me

New money, suit and tieI can read you like a magazine

Love's a game, wanna play?" Ay

New money, suit and tieI can read you like a magazine

Saw you there and I thought"Oh, my God, look at that faceYou look like my next mistake

I could show you incredible things

Nice to meet you, where you been?

Take me homeJust take me homeYeah, just take me home

He says, "What you heard is true, but ICan't stop thinkin' 'bout you and I"I said, "I've been there too a few times"

I say, "I heard, ohThat you've been out and about with some other girl, some other girl"

Takes me homeThe lights are off, he's taking off his coat, mm, yeah

So it goesHe can't keep his wild eyes on the road, mm

And when we go crashing down, we come back every time'Cause we never go out of style, we never go out of style

You got that long hair, slicked back, white T-shirtAnd I got that good girl faith and a tight little skirt

And when we go crashing down, we come back every time'Cause we never go out of style, we never go out of style

And I got that red lip classic thing that you like

You got that James Dean daydream look in your eye

And I should just tell you to leave 'cause IKnow exactly where it leads, but IWatch us go 'round and 'round each time

Fade into view, ohIt's been a while since I have even heard from you (heard from you)

Long driveCould end in burning flames or paradise

MidnightYou come and pick me up, no headlights

He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’

I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense.

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head:

My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’

There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more:

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go.

But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs.

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

Mending Wall

And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

I lost my mother’s watch

. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

—Even losing you

And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

I lost two cities, lovely ones

Repeated       evidence has proved that it can live       on what can not revive              its youth. The sea grows old in it.

Allexternal       marks of abuse are present on this       defiant edifice—

pinkrice-grains, ink-       bespattered jelly fish, crabs like green       lilies, and submarine              toadstools, slide each on the other.

The water drives a wedge       of iron through the iron edge              of the cliff;

  in and out, illuminating theturquoise sea       of bodies.

split like spun       glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness       into the crevices

     The barnacles which encrust the side       of the wave, cannot hide              there for the submerged shafts of the sun,

opening and shutting itself like aninjured fan.

all the physical features of ac-cident—lack       of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and       hatchet strokes, these things stand              out on it; the chasm-side is

wadethrough black jade.

Speaking indifferently to him,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

No one ever thanked him.

cracked hands that ached from labor

Sundays too my father got up early

and swiveling back to see an orange blur    floating perfectly through the net.

with a wild, headlong motion for the game he loved like a country

In Memory of Dennis Turner, 1946-1984

by himself now and laying it gently    against the glass for a lay-up, but losing his balance in the process,    inexplicably falling, hitting the floor

between them without a dribble, without    a single bounce hitting the hardwood

both forwards racing down the court the way that forwards should, fanning out and filling the lanes in tandem, moving    together as brothers passing the ball

trying to catch sight of a high, gliding dribble and a man    letting the play develop in front of him

an underhand pass toward the other guard    scissoring past a flat-footed defender who looks stunned and nailed to the floor    in the wrong direction, trying to catch sight

perfectly, gathering the orange leather    from the air like a cherished possession

A hook shot kisses the rim and hangs there, helplessly, but doesn’t drop,