The romance is all in your head, you know,

when you fetishize the rose

or the cherry shade of your lover’s cheek

or her little button nose.

Your morning is in your head, you know,

with cold prescription rows,

your coffee mug holds no memory

nor the incense your close one chose.

All day is in your head, you know,

the people are of your design -

but squeeze that hell out again,

don’t wait for a higher sign

that you’re not mad, because you are,

living a fantasy not fine

but rough and disgusting, vile and nasty,

O’, who would construct this confine?

this bloody masterpiece, this godly fuckup,

this achingly rich bottle of wine -

You would, by step and fall,

you’re the one to blame.

So if you’d ask to me if you’re mad,

my dear, you give it a name.