How come you look past me
when you sashay down
the hall, with your skimpy skirt
from Baby Sweet, the best
most expensive shop in the mall?
It floats and swings above your knees
and looks so cool.
You sit around with your
dumb friends, giggling,
talking, you are always talking.
What the hell
are you talking about?
Please tell me, no, don't tell me,
I don't want to know. I am
getting sick of the big-breasted honeys
in magazines: you, at least are real.
I feel weird, I don't know.
I stick up like a celery stalk
every time I think of you, but you, you
float right past me, stuck-up and cool,
in the hall, every day at school.
I want to grab you by the hair
(Oww, that hurts!!) and drag you down
to hidden, subterranean caverns,
and tie you up with ropes and handcuffs.
Hey, hey, baby; here I come!
On the other hand, you might not like that.
Never confuse pure passion
with the cold mechanics of rape.
I'm not a great fan of rape,
I don't see the point or sense of it
but I know it happens. Inarticulate
criminal guys want to do away
with the need for conversation.
Talk is the human decider
between the sexes. This is how
everything starts and ends.
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