Ignorance isn't

Innocence
knows full well,
I suspect you
knew that, girl
boy! Or will,
shall you? I suspect!
as much as you did. Innocence
knows this: it is innocence
that's bliss. You can live,
of the mind, ignorant
and kiss, flirt
parley with death
'til you part.
Sad. Cruel,
cried
all the way home, boo hoo hoo
hoo hoo hoo, from the deep, dark
heart, of the stormy night
it was, and then
hark!
Be denied.
For in ignorance,
you lose.
Every chance at
bliss you might have had
by not seeing whose
was the benefit. Yours?
Oh no,

you know better. It's fine.
Ignorance has got about the spirit
of the letter, but has lost
(or never had) quite the presence
of mind.
Innocence knows better.
It's struck less than half-blind, and of more
than half a mind to know
best.

And you know,
I think you already knew.
For there isn't any test
to make sure what's true.
You've been innocent of all,
free at last! Yes, declared,
dropped, charges and all:
as you try to see past,
I can see right through,
I guess: you dare,
oh, your little act
of love, does it show?
do you care, that your little
who hoo cuckoo cheek-coup routine
of play, your white flag,
your white dove, oh
- so, innocence
is bliss? Did I hear you
say? Well,
Yes.
Yes, it is.

And you know what else?

Ignorance
isn't.

Not even close, you know. But when you're so
far off the mark, you don't even know
what you hit. Let alone what's
missing.

There isn't any shame, in it
though. Only prison

Innocence knows blest.
Knows best. Knows
bliss, and as to the rest, well
- it isn't what
it thinks
it is