Will you be my Valentine?
I’ll pick my own flowers, drink my own wine.
The red of the wine like the blood of a saint
I’ll be a lion, circling the ring,
Slay me, I’m starved anyway,
It’s only a matter of time.
Ah, for the Roman way of life,
When you can buy yourself a wife,
Or sell yourself as a slave when
The “good life” is out of reach.
The Vatican will have to forgive me,
Saints Peter and Paul are not on my mind,
Only a saint such as I could find,
With mahogany skin and rose petal lips,
Dreaming of their velvet touch in between sips,
Fantasy aspires to romance,
And becomes its slave.