She may be ******.
And she may check my fingers-
Slam her hard metal pole down on them-
Each time we practice lacrosse.
And she may roll her eyes
At
Me.

But I don't hate her.
I feel sorry for her.
Because I think I'm the only one
Who pays attention
Through the laughter and fun
That
He touches her.

And she makes a joke out of it
So her minions snap out of their dazed state and
Chuckle a little bit.
But his crawling fingers are greedy
And her words are scarce.

All of the brain-dead minions
Laugh when she jokingly screams,
"****!"

Except me.

Ray Lewis, your spokesman
is ripped and he's lean.
He's built like Adonis
and, by rep, very mean.
If I use "old Spice" body wash
as per his advice.
The ladies will swoon
as I'll smell so **** nice.

I'm short fat and Jewish-
a Nebbish at heart.
In intimate settings
I'm quite prone to ****.
So I bought "Old Spice" body wash
and lathered it on.
Then I entered the bedroom
and said "Babe, bring it on!"

Olive, my lover of many a year
was less than impressed
when I deigned to appear.
A giggle, a chuckle and then a guffaw
My confidence sagged
like my double chinned jaw.
"Darling, it may be you smell like Ray Lewis
but when my eyes open
You're short fat and Jewish."

The ad was misleading
and I feel like a fool
Not a mensch, more a reject
from a shallow gene pool.
Bad enough that the store
on my refund is reneging.
foreplay now requires
two hours of begging.

Long walks, long talks under the south sky, we knew it was love
December, snowflakes, cold night but you made it warm
White gown, black suits, sweet vows, but that’s not how it ends
Black lies, midnight fights, angry cries, we know it’s not love (not anymore)
  
This is the morning when the French man curses Paris
This is the morning when the sun loses its light
This is the morning when promises become lies
This is the morning when are love kisses the lips of goodbye
  
Chorus:
Because on the eighteenth, summer turns to winter
All that we have withers
Everything warm and bright fades on the arm of September
I can ******* tears, I can feel my fears
You walk away with no words of love to remember
  
Whiskey, dancing under the night sky, I have heard you died
November, tears fall, sorrow cripples like a thief
Ugly box, pale cheeks, another goodbye, I pray to see you breathe
Regrets, lost love, indecent goodbyes, you left me twice
  
This is the morning when the French man turns to dust
This is the morning when he takes his life
This is the morning when memories fake the aches
This is the morning when even fears and tears can’t bring you back
  
Chorus:
Because on the eighteenth, summer turns to winter
All that we have withers
Everything warm and bright fades on the arm of September
I can ******* tears, I can feel my fears
You walk away with no words of love to remember
  
Coda:
Your awkward smile, your deep blue eyes
Old  photos will remind they’re once alive
Your broken dreams with an unfinished song
No more Tuesday nights for you to sing along
  
Because on the eighteenth of September there’s no morning, only mourning

I have seen death,
and fear.
I have seen new life,
and joy.
I have seen the results,
and abortion.
I have looked death in the face,
and my God was stronger.
I have seen an old life become new,
and a new life ruined.
I have seen marriage,
and divorce.
I have seen runaways,
and old friends.
I have seen many things,
Right and some wrong.
But they shaped who I am,
and today, I will see more.