You type a couple words and all my morals come unmoored
But do I just indulge in this to keep from being bored?
How many times a day, dude, do I think about your torso?
Your hips and lips and eyes and well, your, you know, even more so.
But now how’d any real thing ever trump what we’ve imagined?
I doubt I could be quite what you’ve envisioned, once envagined.
So dude, I think it’s better not to finish what we’ve started.
Let’s face it, babycakes: this isn’t love. It’s just retarded.


About this entry