Zpěvník s akordy

To be born is anything but this The dying wish of a dinosaur's dish Of no use, a shitty gift like a single slipper I go diffuse in city quick like the little dipper She's cute with little titties and a sense of humor But to tell you the truth, sir I pity the poor fool, her Fruitless in a holster and clueless in a kiss I'm older than death Vulgar with unfresh breath During sex I might put us in some joke positions But it's scary always how we end up in missionary Like the daring men who fight to submission Barely conscious there to care about the split decision Your sour thoughts you wield at me You wring out your melon But it yields only drops like an unripe lemon All a man can understand is your bad intentions The less you talk the more you draw and seal and ending Keep leafing through the glossary Sitting there puffing weed Telling me repeatedly all the things you want to be The thug's just a boy once my money in the bags Is your love but a ploy like Bugs Bunny in drag? I leave my lungs open, exposed to the whole crew While you sneak a bump and smoke cloves in the coat room Itching like a local ho Wishing like Pinocchio The wind is at my back anew But still I feel the lack of you Oh, you were so heavy in my heart, boo That soon no longer could my true heart hold you And like the angular Etruscan tchotchke my mom got me At the Met gift shop in '92 Tearing from the brown paper bag I kept it in when it was new After I left it overnight when it was wet with dew It sounds blue and shitty But of course kid, like the little skinny bronze horse did You fell through You were like a buoy I put down in open ocean But with no cross staff and no compass in my possession And too far out for a lighthouse to provide discretion How could I presume that you'd divine direction Must have patience Accept no imitations Take no paper hearts and fucking hate carnations Though my home is vacant Yeah I'm lonesome while I wait That's no open invitation made to hope we make acquaintance The long walks home from the laundromat In Pop-Pop's Holden Caulfield hat Alone, lost for certain Dry and pent Dead bent like a merchant ivory gent Yes, to yet get a spouse and kids Have a house full But I'm hard to be around And sterile as a roused mule Preemptive nostalgia of the possible but doubtful Preemptive nostalgia of the possible but doubtful And always something reminds me of you