Lemonade Romance
This is really happening – we take a left
and continue straight, we stop by the
ancient she-oak and enter the overgrown property -
you look around my house in disbelief,
cheap furnishings and expensive threads,
close to the city but far from people.
What are we doing?
This is all we needed, and so far from what
we want – the holes in the walls are offset
by the sunlight streaming in - and who
needs electricity anyway? The paint splatters
have dried on the floor – a multicolour mess -
and family portraits are obsolete anyway.
What are we doing?
This is love – well, that's what everybody says
but I don't believe it – this house holds a thousand
memories and none of them belong to you or me.
This house had stood the test of time but the storm is
rolling in; let the thunder and lightning take the lives of
the monsters who amble past our windows – perhaps it's fair, well
what are we doing?
This is something I wish you saw – but these pages are filling up and
there's no reason nor rhyme to describe the story within - I call it poetry,
but what will they recite at my funeral? The wallpaper we scribe is full
of love – it's certainly romantic, but it’s all been done before
and we're starting to get bored. Oh, this house we chose has a thousand
stories but we fill it with bad wine and lemon peels.
What are we doing?
and continue straight, we stop by the
ancient she-oak and enter the overgrown property -
you look around my house in disbelief,
cheap furnishings and expensive threads,
close to the city but far from people.
What are we doing?
This is all we needed, and so far from what
we want – the holes in the walls are offset
by the sunlight streaming in - and who
needs electricity anyway? The paint splatters
have dried on the floor – a multicolour mess -
and family portraits are obsolete anyway.
What are we doing?
This is love – well, that's what everybody says
but I don't believe it – this house holds a thousand
memories and none of them belong to you or me.
This house had stood the test of time but the storm is
rolling in; let the thunder and lightning take the lives of
the monsters who amble past our windows – perhaps it's fair, well
what are we doing?
This is something I wish you saw – but these pages are filling up and
there's no reason nor rhyme to describe the story within - I call it poetry,
but what will they recite at my funeral? The wallpaper we scribe is full
of love – it's certainly romantic, but it’s all been done before
and we're starting to get bored. Oh, this house we chose has a thousand
stories but we fill it with bad wine and lemon peels.
What are we doing?