Inflammatory Writ - Joanna Newsom

Oh, where is your inflammatory writ? 
Your text that would incite a light; 'be lit' 

Our music deserving 
Devotion unswerving 
Cried; 'do i deserve her?' 
With unflagging fervor 
Well, no we do not, if we cannot get over it 

But what's it mean when suddenly we're spent? - tell me true 
Ambition came and reared its head and went - far from you 

Even mollusks have weddings 
Though solemn and leaden 
But you dirge for the dead 
And take no jam on your bread 
Just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed 

And all at once 
It came to me 
And i wrote in hunch 'til four-thirty 
But that vestal light 
It burns out with the night 

In spite of all the time that we spend on it 
Om one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet 
While outside the wild boars root 
Without bending a bough underfoot 
Oh, it breaks my heart - i don't know how they do it 

So don't ask me! 

And as for my inflammatory writ? 
Well i wrote it and i was not inflamed one bit 

Advice from the master 
Derailed that disaster 
Said; 'hand that pen over to me, poetaster!' 
While across the great plains 
Keening lovely & awful 
Ululate the last great american novels 
An unlawful lot left, to stutter and freeze floodlit 
But at least they didn't run, to their undying credit