You want flowers; I understand that flowers are grand. They tend to pretty up a gentleman callerís left hand. They donít stand in for love but they symbolize aptly. Grab a handful of blossoms as I pass by the crab tree, hand these to the recipient of my affections, urge they float in a crystal bowl (which I donít provide). The misdirections of the close magic practitioner are like Bruce Wayneís winking subterfuge with the commissioner as compared to my ability to convince you that the mints you had, fragility of wafer thinness established, were gourmet, palmed though they were from the bulk bin at Safeway. Hey! You want better? You better want what you need, not too much in excess of that lest you flaunt with your greed. ďI want to be in love at any price.Ē Who would seek a dozen roses when a posy would suffice?
Iíll read you poetry, Iíll tell you what I know to be true, Iíll make a sentimental observation about the moon, Iíll kiss you so that you could think that kisses are sublime, but I wonít spend a penny Ďcause all that youíre worth is my time.
And I donít mean to bother my pretty head with the math but Iíve yet to spend a nickel and Iím pretty good with the past. Iím pretty solid on the figures. They add up: curvature never to enter into the graph of the ones that had love. An ever-rising number of Ďem! Oh but youíre final. Take the needle off the record, take the finger off the vinyl. Iíll assign all necessary function to the heart. Donít know the economy of the energy thatís involved but itís apart from the pocketbook and the book-keeping thereof. That ledgerís glued together; to open upís very rough, very difficult, barely worth the effort. You wonder when weíre going to Peru again? Never. Sever that fantasy from out your conscious mind Ďless youíre springing for the cab ride down (then thatís just fine). I donít offer brimming coffers on the cost of your disgrace. I can tender sweet nothings, come on over to my place.
We write rhymes when you meet us on the shores of the Seine. You and we, in between us thereís a gathering refrain: ďcheapskates,Ē what you call us in those moments of disdain, and it donít seem to me weíre entitled to the name. Cheap-what?! Dirty word for such a generous soul who could lavish affection without any venerous goal or who, with such a goal in mind, could apprehend any climax in the offing so as not to precede a friend. And indeed the end of the world could be upon us: it could be you and me blazingly enough to astonish all onlookers with the glory of our passion. I know my sentimental earnestness is not so much in fashion but I keep it Ďround the house; some day youíll think itís vintage instead of deeming it narcotic (as is Oliveís take on spinach). Iím going to finish what I started with you, this you can expect. And Iíll call it never-ending when I call you up collect.
All new words! Not about Song Fight anymore. Programming: Baddd Spellah | Additional Keyboards: Gminor7 | Radio Sax: Frankie Big Face | Date Night Desperada: Darkchylde McGloomypants posted on 2007-08-01