I can never tell if an inherent red evil is looking through these bloodshot eyes at you
But you’re still so beautiful
And I’m a beautiful-of-it too
And the feeling might be mutual
But you’re still so beauti-full of it
What can I do?

The things I think, but rarely can confirm
A philosophy on lessons often over-learned
And I’m tickled pink with other thoughts left to discern
Like who I hang around when there are bridges left to burn

The TV screams “don’t condescend me”
Paul Rudd Type #2
You want them to be perfect
And you want them to be cute
And you want them to remind you of everything but you
The format proves timeless as the script grows old
Projecting random fantasies on stories over-told
As any other plebian may have been so sold
And no other love could quite do

All the things you love with all the things I’m thinking of
Makes too many things; that’s an awful lot of stuff
So I’ve been thinking things; like how I feel I’m not enough
I’d like to stick around, but no, goodbye, good luck

Don’t bitch about football. Take a knee
Don’t fret about Mexico, Istanbul or Greece
Cause if you can’t let it go, They’ll watch you bleed
As you stab your neighbor anxiously
Don’t worry about football.

In quarantine, this music was my friend
A little part of me never wanted it to end
Per your inquiry, well I really can’t defend
Per how I’m really feeling; couldn’t tell you where or when