And tell me why I make such fuss About a boy across from me sitting on the bus, I try to keep his features running in my head Such lust is a spiritual death. I could not agree more but his style, Costs my eyes a side dart and a red smile, But something I tell you that I really must Talk to this boy sitting next to me on the bus, Maybe he thinks something of me, it goes to show, I can't stop staring he probably knows, Or I am something unnerving to him, What if I am? Where would I meet him sometime, Our only crossroad is a bus jam Packed with everybody going back and forth, But I cannot keep your face straight, what's the worst? I hope you someday will talk to me, But hope is not my reality.