He says he doesn't like palm trees
but that's okay with me
I'm fonder of pines, and oaks and cedars anyhow
There's only one thing that really matters, now
And that is that he hears me when I speak

He spends his days driving from town to town
While my feet root into the same rotten ground
And as he goes home to a house in the hills
I go home to a hole
next to a row of other holes
in a disgusting land of waste
and hate
and pain

He says that I'm beautiful,
but when I finally crack open
and it's known what's inside;
that I'm not filled with candy, but a swarm of angry bees astray from their hive,
will he still see the beauty that he says is in my eyes?