I don't know what I deserve I don't know much about anything I don't know how in the face of desolation I will swirve. I guess I will hope for something I guess I will take my hands off the wheel I guess I will wait for anything I can pretend to feel I can seek what is not there I can hope in what is real I feel the breeze of the air I feel each gust like knives I feel, I swear I see those in happy lives I see pain and it's not mine I see families like hives I smell their weakness and lack of spine I smell it like leaking gasoline I smell it with a shadow of gin and wine I taste her lips through the screen I taste her pain I taste her urge to be seen I touch her in the rain I touch her I touch what can’t be vain I do not bring gold and myrrh I do not sing like a saint I do not smell of liqueur I have dreams of what to attain I have hope of a someday I have an idea of a life, so quaint You are beauty’s bouquet You are too good for I You are my life on a week of Sundays