Tired Of The Weather.

Mr Right is teaching,
A seed to grow,
I have a knack for everything that's never told.
This planet is a far from romance and the cold,
But I guess I like the way you say that no one's growing old.

She stopped for a,
Last drop of acid rain,
Declare a west end,
Of Avery Street and mighty blaze.

You have my time.
You have my time.

Too late for portions of these meted tide,
I got the waist line and you've got grenades in my mind.

Too late for countries and their prospect of eternity,
It's lame parody.

Maybe remind me,
Of stuttering disagreement,
I have faith,
But you have a relegation,
For rhyme and reason again.

Kiss your head and kiss pseudo-thine.

She's got blue eyes,
And a renegade apropos,
And the way she looks,
The vaseline felony of her air,
She's not there.

The aging have lost their desire for lust,
The ages have lost their desire for us,
Every pleonasm of endearment,
Now goes out to you.