I'm made up of instincts,
one of which are too keen.
but I get by with these high cheek bones,
little faith in people,
or a higher being.
I'm a man with desires
and if I told you any different, I'd be a liar.
as hard as I've tried I've found
I can't deny myself those things that I want.
As last night turns into this morning
buried in your blankets, left for dead,
my heart beating in my head.
I lie still, pretending I'm asleep
playing possum for a peek
I watch you put your clothes on for me,
local pharmacist and his wife,
and I'm convinced after your performance
that this world is too big for us,
and our stupid instincts,
and our stupid desires.