Love Is A Bureaucracy
Posted: Tue Dec 07, 2004 12:07 am
Love Is A Bureaucracy
Love is a bureaucracy
governed by Cupid and His Divine Administration
St. Valentine is our tortured messiah
and William Shakespeare wrote his Bible.
How pitiful we are, those who live in constant prayer
under the assumption, illusion, belief
that the arrows of love in our backs match
at least the arrows in someone else's.
The fruits of love are a fruitless endeavor
in whips and cuffs and chains and roses,
cards and chocolates, a stereotype that supposes
that all human beings are willing to perform
the great, greatly exaggerated companionship in porn.
It's not who you know, it's who you love,
but even faith cannot pay the bills.
You're only as strong as your position in the world,
and the lovers are the elitists.
The Romantics and the Debutantes,
the Bourgeoise lifestyle often taunts
the meek and hopeless in which it haunts
of lacking wantonness in La Resistance.
The rebels, they fie against Aphrodite and Venus
and make a mockery of David and his little penis
for their own amusement against Cupid's Elitists.
They think, "My God, look at how these lovers treat us!"
But it's just consumerism for Miss Lonely Hearts--
the Ace of Spades and the Joker make love
in the Queen's holding pen.
Is it a Blackjack, or Jack of all trades?
We get discounts on pain,
red light specials on jealousy.
Bargain two-for-one deals on cheating spouses
in the houses of the men who can't afford to orgy.
We scourge the retail stores
in search of something better--
binge drinking and old love letters,
trying desperately to forget her,
remembering only how I upset her.
There's got to be something better,
there's got to be something better.
Love is a bureaucracy
governed by Cupid and His Divine Administration
St. Valentine is our tortured messiah
and William Shakespeare wrote his Bible.
How pitiful we are, those who live in constant prayer
under the assumption, illusion, belief
that the arrows of love in our backs match
at least the arrows in someone else's.
The fruits of love are a fruitless endeavor
in whips and cuffs and chains and roses,
cards and chocolates, a stereotype that supposes
that all human beings are willing to perform
the great, greatly exaggerated companionship in porn.
It's not who you know, it's who you love,
but even faith cannot pay the bills.
You're only as strong as your position in the world,
and the lovers are the elitists.
The Romantics and the Debutantes,
the Bourgeoise lifestyle often taunts
the meek and hopeless in which it haunts
of lacking wantonness in La Resistance.
The rebels, they fie against Aphrodite and Venus
and make a mockery of David and his little penis
for their own amusement against Cupid's Elitists.
They think, "My God, look at how these lovers treat us!"
But it's just consumerism for Miss Lonely Hearts--
the Ace of Spades and the Joker make love
in the Queen's holding pen.
Is it a Blackjack, or Jack of all trades?
We get discounts on pain,
red light specials on jealousy.
Bargain two-for-one deals on cheating spouses
in the houses of the men who can't afford to orgy.
We scourge the retail stores
in search of something better--
binge drinking and old love letters,
trying desperately to forget her,
remembering only how I upset her.
There's got to be something better,
there's got to be something better.