Most of the men she courts think they're it,
but most of them are full of shit.
But me? I'm empty: I like it that way.
I don't spout noise 'less I've something to say.
But arcane and heartfelt she does not want;
she does not need true love to haunt
her darkest heart, just arms to lend:
just lips to kiss, and ears pretend.
Her life is fancy-filled, waking dreams
play her mind, she don't need screams
to chill her peace or fright her dove:
her wings float on draughts of airless love.
She fills her nights with drugs and drink;
rum and Mandy tickle her pink.
His fingers run the nape of her neck,
but from her K-hole all means heck.
The ocean breeze is softly stirring,
the world is wistfully cycling, whirling,
and love is prey to love's decay;
yet I pray that she'll love me some day.
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