I'm tired of boys who fight with girls and stain their sheets,
And girls who tell stories of boys and graze their knees,
And where did you get to smell so sweet,
Is that sweetness for me,
And where did I find these eyes that I found,
They will surely let me down.
And your hair stops short of a line which starts at your neck,
And flows over your collarbone down to your breast,
Where my hand lies ever so gently.
And my hand starts to move down your stomach and in between those thighs,
To a soft warm place I call home and may god protect your home.
There's a lady who cries and builds a shrine for a miscarried child,
And a small boy who cries and cries and cries and cries and cries.
I see these sights with the sleepiest eyes and a heart so contentedly wise and tired,
And now I bathe in the light of the most beautiful angel this side of the sun.