Only In Novels

All this is, is just a song that goes like this

and it goes on and on and on and on

you can kiss the pope, you can pass the pipe

you can pray for praying sake,

but all it adds up to is your life

when you're 64 the pussy play declines

trembling hands on dried-up

flowers are not ideal for Valentines

modern life's a bore, everything's defined

polka-dotted, plastic wrapped

face to face till it's phased out

we can ask for more, by not asking at all

let's forget how it is done and

try and fail till it's a farce

she said, fuck me like a poet,

like someone tasting wine

there's no love without some smut,

so take the raw with the refined

we can stay indoors, just let the world go by

there's nothing there we haven't seen

and if there is then that's alright

now hold that thought,

through the night, alright?