Why I ever lamented your advertisement in the NY Times Your sickly look, it's she you took swept off her feet I know how it feels Found her again on the internet while you were desperate In Haifa, a million miles away from English without an accent You hunted her down
A clown you are She, editing dime novels by candlelight manufacturing romance for the racks of Walmart Next to the car mags and tattoo girls are those things women read gotta make a living somehow
So she can fill in the spaces between your attention with her imagination, stoked daily from corporate romantication She can live in her bubble world and see what she wants eternally and think it's real
So she's better for you than me because your love isn't real, never was, never will be Both of you from the land of fake nobility Prep schools and Ivies that lead to jobs in sparkly NYC lobbies and decaf mochachinozeenos with a side of 100 calorie pastry
Before dinner at the Italian restaurant where you can show you are loved and love
And you, with your fakery You shallowness, can collect your trust check And work just a little, and blow the cold coals of her love once in awhile to get the corporate machinations again in her head to spin a fantasy romance