One, two, three, four,
Look who's here at the door!
Five, six, seven, eight,
I hope it's them, they're pretty late-
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve,
Their coat goes up on the shelves.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,
I hope they see a guillotine.
Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty,
Now they're here, I'll hurt them plenty.

No use counting any more,
It's just making my brain quite sore.
I simply had to tell you more
Of they who turned life into war.
Made happy thinking quite a chore,
Right at my face they swore and swore.
Everything nice, hidden in a drawer,
Or scattered everywhere, all over the floor.
May someday beach up upon the shore,
May I fall asleep without a snore.

saturday night dates
turn to tv dinners

you forget when the last time
he surprised you with roses was

you no longer wake up
to make him breakfast before work

he no longer calls you
in the middle of the day
unless, of course,
it's to remind you to pick up his laundry

dressing up
is limited to social gatherings
you're in your jammies when he gets home

*** becomes routine
it's no longer passionate, more like a tiresome duty

your **** lingerie is pushed to the back of the closet
& truthfully, he doesn't seem to care much

you'd rather be on the phone
than talking to each other

you don't crave him the way you did
he's no longer interested in the world inside your head

"how was work?" "fine"
"how are you?" "okay"

he tells you he loves you
but it doesn't mean much anymore

honestly speaking, its all become a bore
being with him just means more chores

i guess that's the thing about love
it wears out
*the magic can only last so long