You never know what kind of filling
That chocolate ******* you
Pull out the box is,
As long as it's obligated to taste
Like Chocolate in the beginning.


And the aftertaste like a cold lover
Gone into his arms,
Thin blanket on winter's crest
Filled with yellow snow,
Summer's lemonade in brisk
Moonlight when all the world
Is fooled by your glory,

And you can never choose how they love you,
Guess as long as they do is
What matters,
No matter how bitter the ****
Inside really is.