Stalker's my whole style,
and if I get caught, I'll
deny, deny, deny.
Today you're twenty-five
I made you something fine,
it's in the palm of my new hand.
It's out: you're mostly
what I think about, and
I'm proud, I've been coasting
on this single's route.
But I still hear your name
in wedding bells.
Will I look better or
will I look the same
rotting in hell?
You're the only
proper noun I need. Hurry,
My copper crown's gone green.
Pull me out of this tree;
I'm stuck up a branch waiting,
clearly caught between
two things unclear to me:
Are you a female young messiah
for a stowaways in dugouts? And
are you what church-folk
mean by 'The Good News',
pulling plastic bags off heads?
Or are you giving me a
dirty look in the rear view,
clicking the button
on your U'Haul pen?
Don't pretend you didn't
see me coming 'round the bend,
on my fixie with the chopped
horns turned in, trailing
behind your biodiesel Benz.
Stalker's my whole style,
and if I get caught, I'll
deny, deny, deny.
'25' Carved with a butter knife
on the palm of my new hand.
It's out: you're mostly
what I think about.
