The graveyard again. Lana is asleep, her head resting on her parents' gravestone. This is a personal low, Lana. She wakes up and checks her watch, with probably the worst neck-crick in history. "What am I doing? This is crazy," she says to herself. I think you moved past crazy after about the 1,500th mention of your dead parents last season. As Lana gets up, we see her poem guy standing behind her. She spots him and calls, but he bolts. She gets him to stop, and says she read the other poem. "It was beautiful," she says. But was it preternaturally beautiful? "You really think so?" Byron (hoo hoo) asks, pathetically. Lana's same blouse is starting to emit fog all over the scene from its funk. She asks his name. He answers and I giggle. "Like the poet?" she asks. He says yes, like his great uncle. The meat packer. Lana asks why he writes poems for her. He says that it's because she inspires him. To be a better lead singer for The White Stripes. Lana rudely turns on a flashlight and shines it in his face. He yells, "No!" and knocks the light out of her hands. Clark is suddenly on the scene and yells, "Get away from her!" He runs at the poet, who slips and falls onto a gravestone, where he's knocked unconscious. Lana's annoyed. The fey poet comes awake and rubs his head in pain. Now all he wants to write is Star Wars fanfic. Byron (chuckle) looks at his fingers. There's blood! He faints. From this dramatic climax, we can finally exhale: There are commercials.
Talon. He may be a waifish poet, but Byron (snerk) sure can eat! He's wolfing down cake and coffee while holding his head. That's like when someone in old movies would get bonked in the mouth and to show they had a toothache, they'd wear that big bandage around their whole head. Yeah, we just saw your head bleed. We understand it without further stage business. Byron can't believe he passed out. "I'm sorry I scared you," Clark says, like he's not sorry at all. You didn't scare him, Clark; you bumrushed the fuck out of him. The guy -- who has Edward Scissorhands skin -- says it's all right, since Clark was protecting the beautiful young lady. Oh, gag. He says that Clark is chivalrous. So was Pepe le Pew. Lana rolls her eyes. The poet says Lana's lucky to have a boyfriend who cares so much about her. Hemming and hawing about Clark being just a friend. This scene is like molasses running uphill. Clark is a friend -- "an overprotective one," Lana adds. I'll bet Clark could meet much better girls online. Lord Boring graces us with more verse about Lana's beauty and her forthwith and whatnot. Clark has a big old dumb look on his face, like, "Don't tell me this shit's actually working." Lana smiles and says that was beautiful. "Which poet wrote that?" Clark asks, all ig'nant. "Shakespeare," Bar-none says. Lana says she can't imagine being home-schooled and never seeing anyone. Yeah, she only works eighty-hour weeks at the Talon and has no concept. You know, I'm sure there are nice folks among you who don't fit this generalization, but every person I've ever met who was home-schooled was a little...um, strange. Like the kind of person who you're afraid to ask their life story because you know every sentence is going to start, "And then my parents said..." Poor Byron says you don't miss what you never had. Except a million dollars. I miss that every day. Clark notices some nasty-looking marks on the boy's wrist. Clark asks if his parents are strict. "They only want what's best for me," he replies. A life sentence. Lana hears a truck outside and says it must be the milk delivery. How does she know that? When do these kids sleep? It's all that damn coffee! Byron (har har) jumps to his feet and asks what time it is. When he's told it's 5 AM, he whines about his parents waking up and exits quickly. Lana and Clark go after him.