You are swimming in the pulp attaching my eyes to my mind
It’s convivial and Bohemian and ahead (or behind) the times
To want only you and yet let you get any sort of satisfaction
From anywhere you can find it and if I find it I’ll have the same reaction
Yet accept us they will not; toleration’s mild disdain the rule
And we won’t cut the strings from needing to feel valued and approved
I have to walk the tightrope in 3 inch high combat boots
Working and living robbed of life and the freedom to choose
So when the nights come and go that I get to be by your side
I firmly reattach your frequency to the weary optic nerve behind my eyes…

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