I’m totally in love with a first-class dummy,
lifting me higher than my dreams could achieve,
where it’s spelled almost different each trade,
yet still having basically the same meaning,
and I certainly don’t care much about that either.
Breaking into my bedroom window as I sleep,
while I’m spread prone on a church’s floor,
toasted white wine in a family style restaurant,
fishing with my dad throughout a canyon,
aware that I’m always just talking to myself.
Twenty-five years ago, I sensed the problem,
over time it has only been wrapped in a taco,
flavored to everyone’s costly separated liking,
wondering if we are going to have the courage,
to finally put out this very popular man on fire.
Down from sight to count off every grimy toe,
but the point of multiplication seems to escape you,
cook in oil when our empty souls are now hungry,
when you’re deaf, it doesn’t matter if they complain,
once corrected, merely resume what you were doing.
Never did approve of its initial run as truly predicted,
can’t alter the contradiction or make me forget,
simply reading what you claim extreme desire creates,
as we all know neither of us will fool the opposite,
except it’s not important what you think on this subject.
Sharwrong's Song 