After I say I'll **** you in the bathroom
Of the pizza by slice place
It’s not fair for me to ask
What kinda wife you might make
Forbidding you to smoke
Like the fascist butt of a joke
That is poor practice for opening
The heart to a possible start
Right?
Horn-rimmed Napoleon only in for the week
On high over the breech, in a speech
He's been preaching since he's been alive
Jeez, nasty little man
So fast to show his hand
To any last bastard who’s ass is in pants
The man's manners, mild, like winters in the south
Rather odd, he might inquire
If he can finish in your mouth
Sex-starved, wrecked, scarred, flesh marred, but best part
Never bent bars hold men far from fresh start
At dawn, with Hilton pen, he feels he'll fall hard
Yes, in bed the bard tends to pretend he's all heart