Baby can I come home with you?
Yeah, I’m not the first to ask;
but there’s a thing you got – please don’t ask
just what it is, it ain’t part of my five senses
but every other man in here
just don’t know what you got:
oh, they feel it, but they don’t know
and that’s the trick – if you will,
to knowing just what you need.
You don’t got to say yes,
you don’t even got to breath;
just let me look upon your deification,
then contemplate your degradation
just to satisfy my basest needs;
I’m sorry {but not really,
just for posterity’s sake}
There’s a million ways to independence;
I took the road of rebellion
but we all wind up a the same cafe’, =
I’m really going to build that altar and jump.
It’s not a fault or a deed, it’s devotion
that borders on sickly, like a genetic defect:
all the romantics have died painfully.
screaming at low volumes
