He asks and it's not like I can be rude
Because I'm not that
Type of person
But yet I'll act nice
Pretend to bat my eyes
Perhaps a wink thrown in there
For good measure
But none of the sincerity
Not from me.
The dinner is the dinner
The table the table
And the napkin is a napkin
Laying there by laying there
Only I lack sincerity
Dripping it you'd think i was
Mrs buttersworth
But he grins and believes
I'm the person I'm showing him
Which is really just smoke and screens
And pretty things,
Not the real girl,
The poet the crazy poet
With a heart brain mouth eyes ears
And made of flesh and bone
Not smoke.
I never knew smoke could be so attractive.