What I Won't Do
I haven't tuned the seven-string guitar
Or fixed the crevice near the thirteenth fret;
I traded bon mots with a marmoset
And stuck my head inside a pickle jar,
Regarded Moscow's turrets from afar,
Explained what I won't do without a net,
Said I would grow up (though I haven't yet),
And put some orange decals on my car.
I really love you, when I think of you,
Which you can see from this bouquet of flowers
Somebody brought you, somebody who cowers
In anonymity. It isn't true
That I don't care. These little things I do —
I've been awake now for a whole two hours.
Or fixed the crevice near the thirteenth fret;
I traded bon mots with a marmoset
And stuck my head inside a pickle jar,
Regarded Moscow's turrets from afar,
Explained what I won't do without a net,
Said I would grow up (though I haven't yet),
And put some orange decals on my car.
I really love you, when I think of you,
Which you can see from this bouquet of flowers
Somebody brought you, somebody who cowers
In anonymity. It isn't true
That I don't care. These little things I do —
I've been awake now for a whole two hours.
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