I won’t tweet, don’t ask me
I won’t tweet, don’t ask me
I won’t tweet, my friends, to you
My heart won’t let my fingers do things that they should do

You are short and you’re sweet, you know what, you’re so new
And you know what you do to me, I’m feeling blue

I’m like an ocean wave that’s bumped on the shore
I’m an old curator show me the door

I won’t tweet, don’t ask me
I won’t tweet, don’t ask me
I won’t tweet, my friends, to you
My heart won’t let my fingers do things that they should do

*This blog was sponsored by those of us who still feel compelled to write essays, even if nobody reads them.  Which brings up that age old question–if an art historian screams in the forest and there is no one about does she still need a tranquilizer?