The soul cries out Hear a woman singing Don't want your bullshit, yeah Just want your sexuality. Don't want excuses, yeah Write me your poetry in mot… - Kate Bush

Who knows who wrote that song of summer, That blackbirds sing at dusk, This is a song of colour, Where sands sing in crimson, red and rust, Then climb into bed and turn to dust.

Well, you won't get me with your Belladonna — in the coffee, And you won't get me with your aresenic — in the pot of tea, And you won't get me in a hole to rot — with your hemlock On the rocks.

"You

You are a person of unknown reasons,
Reacting with movements and noises.
You may be bold, wear glasses, or have freckles,
Yet inside you there may be great feelings
Of beauty and love, fighting to appear
On the pimpled surface.
It reaches out - "I love you."
A laugh, a jeer.
The feelings are trapped and you,
You - disappear."