Lyrics to "Paper Hearts" by WHY?

WHY?

PAPER HEARTS

MUMPS, ETC.

To be born as anything but this: the dying wish of a dinosaur’s dish; of no use, a shitty gift, like a single slipper. I go diffuse in city quick, like the Little Dipper. She’s cute with little titties and a sense of humor, but to tell you the truth, sir, I pity the poor fool. Her, fruitless in a holster and clueless in a kiss. I’m older than death, vulgar with unfresh breath.

During sex, I might put us in some joke positions, but it’s scary always how we end up in missionary like the daring men who fight to submission, barely conscious there to care about the split decision. Your sour thoughts you wield at me, you ring out your melon, but it yields only drops, like an unripe lemon. All a man can understand’s your bad intentions. The less you talk, the more you draw and seal an ending. Keep leafing through the glossary, sittin’ there, puffin’ weed, telling me repeatedly all the things you wanna be.

The thug’s just a boy, once my money in the bags. Is your love but a ploy, like Bugs Bunny in drag? I leave my lungs open, exposed to the whole crew while you sneak a bump and smoke cloves in the coatroom. Itching like a local ho, wishing like Pinocchio. The wind is at my back anew, but still I feel the lack of you.

Oh, you were so heavy in my heart, Boo, that soon no longer could my true heart hold you. And like the angular Etruscan tchotchke my mom got me at the Met gift shop in ‘92, tearing from the brown paper bag I kept it in when it was new after I left it overnight and it was wet with dew, it sounds blue and shitty, but of course, kid, like the little skinny bronze horse did, you fell through.

You were like a buoy I put down in open ocean, but with no cross-staff and no compass in my possession, and too far out for a lighthouse to provide discretion. How could I presume that you’d divine direction? Must have patience, accept no imitations, take no paper hearts and fuckin’ hate carnations.

Though my home is vacant, yeah, I’m lonesome while I wait. That’s no open invitation, mate, to hope we make acquaintance. The long walks home from the laundromat in Pop Pop’s Holden Caulfield hat, alone. Lost for certain, dry and pent, dead-bent like a Merchant Ivory gent. Yes, to yet get a spouse and kids, have a houseful, but I’m hard to be around and sterile as a roweled mule.

Preemptive nostalgia of the possible but doubtful?
Preemptive nostalgia of the possible but doubtful.

And always, something reminds me of you.

lyrics found here

http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/mumps-etc.