oh, this grip, what seems to be
the power you hold over me
a hold that I cannot escape
like syrup within a tasty crepe
like old shoelaces, worn and ripped
like fries in chocolate shakes are dipped
or flapjacks on a stove are flipped
perhaps a moonlit serenade
perhaps some homemade squeezed lemonade
or simply lying with you in the shade
you see, these simple things, to me
perhaps are what our love can be
