She's pretty and she's sitting
right in front of me across
the table. We are hitting
it off and in my head I hear applause
after every joke, every line
and when she laughs
her eyes just shine.
It's unbelievable how lucky
I am with my goofs and gaffs
to land a girl as great as her.

I stir my expensive cocktail with the straw.
Her body is probably against the law.
Her words change me to putty goo.
I know what it is that I should do.
I know what I should say: 'I'll pay.'
"Oh no, you shouldn't."
'But, yes, I will, we'll call it
even when you pay on our next date.'
I reach for love and for the check and what the heck,
the waiter's here, it's all too late,
I can't find my wallet.

Of a man I am acquainted, so bland
even the colours of his clothing fainted.
He has a knack of drinking till he passes,
dropping in and dropping glasses.

He chooses not how loud he speaks,
he chooses not how soon he peaks.
He flails about, his arms and legs,
not consciously aware of the help he needs he begs.

I throw my attire, emit many roars,
check my surrounding for wild and mean boars.
So sure, I jump and swim to him,
grab his collar, pull up his chin.

He grabs me back and pulls me down,
still flailing, causing so us both to drown.

Every year some artist makes changes.
Every time they do, we do.
In notes and lines and flags and mines,
game, with song, intertwines.

All times are strange, depending on your
perceptive needs and the range
of what we can bear before it bleeds.

The boldness of genes,
the whatever that means,
the finches, the flinches, flight or fight.
We'll never know who was truly right
about the meaning of it all.

The best part is we can choose,
the worst is that we must
or decay and rust
force us to lose.

With swerves and glides
and bolts and slides, they
danced on hard matrasses.

A hit, a punch, a kick,
a bunch of quick
dashes in rapid succession.

The fall from grace,
the blurry face and dartling eyes
the get-up and realize
everyone has a different pace.

I see in faces full of lies
and graces full of prides
the agonizing cries
of people, hurt,
wanting to be heard.

I pass them by the hour,
watch their pain devour
as they suffer from their past,
not knowing how long the
madness is bound to last.

It puts perspective on my downs.
Not that I'm not worth some frowns.
In some way it's even freeing,
to see what they're not seeing.

Why?
Perhaps I am the bad guy.

Waarom, als ik iets goeds zie in een ander,
denk ik als eerst, dat wil ik ook?
Waarom wil ik aanvankelijk dat ik verander
en geniet ik daarna pas van de joke,
het beeld of het geschrevene.
Het is zo geschift dat het me zorgen baart.
Het komt niet overeen met het gegevene,
het venijn zit in de staart.

Een floppy disc, een video, een dvd,
wanneer gaan zij eens met *** tijden mee?
Het verandert meerdermaals per week.
Mijn functie houdt vast overmorgen
al niet langer steek.

Mijn stick is slap, mijn ballen
zijn een floppertje,
ze zijn zo laag gevallen,
ze spelen terug verstoppertje.

Word geen vijftig, word geen tachtig,
wees de waalse taal slechts gebrekkig machtig.
Voor advies moet je bij mij niet zijn,
ik draag ondergoed van Albert Heijn.