When I was eight years old, before puberty took hold,
I thought I'd end up beside a princess bride
And love was indivisible.
Never mind how my taste reflects a disturbing oedipal complex.
It's not awkward, girl.
The compliments are coming next.
You're no witch. You're no wench.
You're like Bjork with better fashion sense.
A phone, fifty cents and I'm building up my confidence.
Respect to your work; You're an artist. I'm a silly jerk.
I think that dynamic could work, so work it.

i have a total crush on you, baby, and I can't let it go.
Oh no! If only I could let you know.

When we spoke, no joke,
I started shedding slutty girls like snakeskin,
My collection acquired through shallow misdirection.
And as I drive tonight the west coast sky is daring me to try.
I feel alive tonight with the possibility that I'm your guy.
Though I suffer from dyslexia and mild manorexia
And my hair cannot commit to one popular genre of music
And though they all claim that a girl can't take a boy's last name
Or end up divorced and estranged,
I'm counting on you.

Your other suitors are no poets.
They're only actors who can play guitar. Have I won your heart?
They're not students or screenwriters.
They're only models that they taught to read.
Love, would you agree?

I'm quite sure you love me, Sherri.
I'm quite sure I love you too.
We should make a verbal agreement to only kiss each other
Because one time, beneath the sky,
Outside my New York pigsty, I saw a vision of you and I.
Did it hurt when you fell from heaven, girl?