On Your Mind

Your natural inclination for smileage puts a lion’s share of mileage between me and all that’s acidic. Not being anti Semitic but I’d love to adorn you with a crown of roses: no thorns. I’ll build us a deer park, and we’ll spoon there, on benches, next to fountains, while Bambi comes to feast on tart greens. Don’t worry. They won’t be offended by our steamy scenes, nor your folded-up jeans. Girl, say what’s on your mind. In a universe this size, your big beacon-like eyes make the ether opaque enough to beseech you, and teach you, but what the hell is the point, if my spirit can’t reach you? Say what’s in your heart. Say what’s on your mind. ‘Cause the imbedded image of your smileage has faded. I guess we’ve all been a long time jaded. Who am I to talk? What’s on your mind?