You make me comfortable in the grand scheme of things. It barely matters whether
my lawn turned like Brazil in the span of a smack on my face and a punch to your guts. You wear me out. Like a beetle squished between a magazine rolled up and a patio door. Each proverbial sentence sounds like a normalcy; each normalcy like a proverb. Money talks and I never know what it’s about. Interpol plays on the radio to my typewriter’s dismay. Is it 1965? Play me out. Play me out. The ropes swinging in between two kiddos as recess calls to bird’s nests in the trees and hovers the rooftops. Could you – could you? – swing by the porch and grab that magazine for me? Take your shades off and smile diligently at the neighbors. We never liked them this much.
Come on play me out, lay me out, your sexy desire – like I was the horniest of the bunch – like I was the sexiest for this hunch. Take the kids up to school and the reward shall be provided on your return.
I never expect Ulysses to cross the door but you could look the role. Agree – agree to – agree too – aggressive little birds pecking wheat Mary left in the yard during this fucking recess. You wear me out like the grey on pigeons. Come on baby lay me out in the grass like we did promiscuously in the eyes of the federal. You wear me out like my awareness becomes even bigger. Take that grin off your face as I sip my tonical gin in disgrace. Nobody drinks but the bearer of tender, sweetness and the likes. Onomatopes heard across the radio from 1992 made in France. The third verse makes its way to my head like a deep deep existential crisis and I remember I am comfortable in this grand scheme of thi ngs L ike yo u ma d e me feel.