It's a shame this poem didn't turn out, because I love this song, but that's always the way - it's harder to write something honest if you love it, and honesty was never my strong suit in the first place.
There are two kinds of purity,
The first is to be clean:
1) The plump-faced tidy smiling one
Who know where her hands have been
2) The pretty little meadow with
The purple-paley blooms
3) The well-swept floor
Of a fresh hospital room.
4) The handsome white of new-scrubbed hands
5) The freshing scent of mints
6) The smell of elementary schools
Where other souls were sent.
7) The burn of bleach on bloody sheets,
8) The sound of freshly butchered meat
9) The clean cut limbs of paper dolls
Before they touch your hands.
But don't forget the second strand
Of purity reserved for man -
For if you are not neat
You only need a pretty way
Of putting all your parts away.
Perhaps inside a little box
Or underneath the sea
You might consider it to be
An injury -
(No more, in it's peculiar way
Than other purities.
The soap that scrubs can dry the skin
The mint can burn the eye.
The pretty child can snap a heart.
The violet can die.)
A hurt is not defined by pain,
A wound, not circumscribed by blood,
A broken breast not evident.
To injure - is to fail.
Cleanliness is injury
To she whose made of crumpled leaves
And last December's soil.