Hey Jude,

It wounds to refrain. Wish I could still dance, but I do not remain as much.

Hey Jude,
Trippingly on the tongue, salting into the pianoed remnants of silently lipped cathedrals. Build me a temple so that I may fall down and worship slowly towards an unhurried, unimpassioned death.

Hey Jude,
Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better.

But if the notes are already dead, bury them under your tongue and swallow them like plucked virgins' lies, silk silk. Lose the name of action.

Hey Jude.