Something sad seen through your eye, And I won't even let you try to Break away and live like you Cos when I kiss I smother too. My bed of roses, plucked from yours, Your flower dead and me the cause, Four months or minutes could not hide You from this thick and cloying tide. That sparkle is back in your eye But now I nurse a jealous pride Which will not hear of happiness But listens to your sins confessed And skulks away to brood alone Or maybe guilt trip on the phone About your European men, Why must you be yourself again?
