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I Can Love You Every Morning
And for the rest of the day
I Can Love You Every Morning
You can call me a turkey, dear Asha, and it might be apt, but emotionally I will be hurt and just crouch down like a discouraged animal.
I change the channel to what you want to watch, fetch you a mug of whatever, but secretly I stalk you like a predator with the goal to convert you to loving me.
And when I feel faint, I have to find the way to not bend into the fray where the most beautiful mutation will afford me nothing but pain.
I wish to be judged on a gradient where the fashion is to let me slide on all the bad things and exalt me on all the good things.
It’s like you and your makeup — you make the living out of the dead, a sort of parachute that allows the owner to land softly.
I’d eat steak if I could, but the economics of it don’t allow it; maybe I will when they install the next presidential candidate.
To me there’s nothing offensive about the eagle, but I’m afraid I must warn you about any patriotic sentiment, that sort of rough ballet.
I’m thinking they overcharge us for everything and lose count while entertaining the whole affair.