Why call you me your love? I hate it. Society laminated me with custom and curse. I am only an ashtray to your emotions Climbing this weighing machine You push and press And always expect your image to come out.
You need to recall a damp diaphanous dame Spiraling out of surf to buy soap; A cute belle drawing her hand Down the cheeks of a guy to buy a shaving cream.
From bread to bed From ass-wear to apparel You subject yourself to the Freudian commercials. Yet When you see through the gory hole of 'amneo-centesis' You press SOS signal if my image is coming out. Why call you me your love? I hate it. I hate it to the hilt.
