Do You Really Think We're Made for Each Other?

My love for you is like a crashing plane: exhilarating pace, without control: you’re equatorial around the pole. Why meet my sunshine with torrential rain? My heart is Dealey Plaza, you’re on Main. I often think destruction is your goal - you seem to me a well-intentioned troll. Profundities, once uttered, are inane: your utterances, colourfully drab, are tart as custard, sweet as succotash: your slow-burn humour, like a smash-and-grab, resembles credit cards. I’ll stick to cash. No self-respecting homeless hermit-crab would ever trade with you. You’re feebly rash.