Poor Excuse

We're not responsible for anything:
Not horses dancing, not for eating meat
Or eating only pastries, sticky sweet
And substanceless, not how the angels sing,
What lovers whisper while imagining
A world of grand responses, not the feet
That march through winter to the hapless beat
Of twelve-bar blues, not for the wicked king.

A poor excuse for running, it may be,
But that's the boldest one we have. We run,
Avoiding consequences. What we've done
And what we hoped to do were unfairly
Conflated in your mind, so what you see
Looks bad, though we did not harm anyone.