[LEMONS] 2.14.2002
Only You Could Make a ’66 Beetle Look Good
I was never good with blondes,
but here we are,
wheeling around town,
clanking the hanging tailpipe on curbs.
I like your Irish lilt,
and keep sneaking peeks at your hat.
It’s KGB style with big furry ears,
(like Snoopy’s Red Baron).
You have a style that can’t be bought.
It’s a style that relies on a determined impulse,
purchases and acquisitions that no one else wanted to make,
years of buying for a special event
(or just because you like pink and brown).
We rumble through alleys having missed our turn.
I listen as you tell stories about this address and that.
You know so many places,
have so many stories.
You scare me.
I have busted lace holes on my sneakers,
boring gray pants,
a drab green sweater,
and I wonder why you are hanging out.
It’s not a confidence issue,
but did you see the way people look at me?
They are surprised that you know me,
that you brought me to the bar.
They are surprised because I am not Gerard,
Or Clooney, or Kravitz.
I am just a simple guy,
floating on the wind,
enamored and smiling,
patting my unruly hair without grace.
This car,
the way it rattles,
the windows that won’t shut,
it suits you.
It needs you.
You make it look good.
I finally get up the guts to tell you:
you scare me.
But why on earth do you respond
by telling me that I scare you too?
That was the last thing on earth I expected to hear.
After hearing that,
my seventeenth cigarette tastes pretty good.
Maybe I can talk to blondes after all.
- l i n k -
