Honest to a fault.
Never know when to halt.
You're the wound—I'm salt.
Age old scotch—triple malt.
Drink too much, you'll get drunk.
Think I'm some kind of punk?
I'll put you in a funk.
In a funk, not the trunk.
Do I scare you so much?
Like a foot on the clutch.
Is my presence a crutch?
Will you give me your trust?
You're ignoring the lust.
Like a plane, you need thrust.
Only then will your wings,
Lift you up like a king—
On a throne up above.
That's what they call true love.
No comments:
Post a Comment