| That’s what I really learned in college to talk
|
| with confidence at parties about things I don’t know
|
| And to act like I’m a rich man when my net worth is actually pretty low
|
| And to never be a fool
|
| To never fall into cliche
|
| To never take my feelings seriously
|
| To know what not to say
|
| So I would never write a love song
|
| I would never speak in rhyme
|
| I would never sing my feelings for a girl in three quarter time
|
| I would never hit a high note followed by a pregnant pause
|
| And I’d never ever ever let myself believe the cause could be love, love, love,
|
| love
|
| Am I a man or just an __ with a good degree?
|
| Am I a man or just an infantilized boy in an expensive t-shirt?
|
| When I began to think I was better than Armado and his cliched love songs
|
| No I would never sigh or swoon or ever be a love-lorn fool
|
| I am too aware of irony
|
| That’s what we learned in school
|
| But now I see the life I tried to buttress with that learning
|
| There’s a trophy wife and a soul-killing job all to justify your earnings
|
| What I really learned in college to care too much what people say |
| To use my words to mock or hide behind and never give myself away
|
| But I look at her and wonder why we try to live sequestered
|
| Did I think my heart would listen to my mind and be unpestered by love
|
| Maybe I’m having a change of heart, sweet Rosaline
|
| I don’t wanna play the part that I was given
|
| You turn every cliche to art
|
| It’s like I never knew the words before
|
| Yes, I will write for you a sonnet and my verse will not be free
|
| I will leave my heart upon it in a cliche minor key
|
| Cuz she makes each cliche true and now my heart is in her hands
|
| My heart’s on fire
|
| My heart’s an open book
|
| My heart is on my sleeve
|
| She warms the cockles of my heart
|
| I don’t know what the f that means
|
| Well I will love right
|
| Sigh, pray, __ and groan
|
| She makes me want to sing
|
| I’ll sing every day
|
| It’s like she makes everything into a cliche
|
| My love, you make me feel like a king
|
| (Not my best friend the king, but a proverbial king)
|
| You make me think about wedding rings and lots of bling and other things
|
| And love, love, love, love |
| I’m having a change of heart. |