only one got the cherry

meet me in the bronx with your true american jazz,

dress up in radiant pink and don’t forget the gloves,

they don’t see you like i see you, you’ve got the 60s’ eyes,

pick up the diamonds from your castle, and rings to put on paws.

we’ll get the cherry milkshake and listen to jim and your uncle.

only one of us got the cherry - not enough money & charm.

seeking your scent in the no wave days like a stalker,

i put on more blush to get your tiny face and hide the scars.

i plucked my eyebrows, got them straight as your ton of fans.

you’d sing of me like i am an aristocrat. or not.

but you’ll never care that i flew as an angel from the frontline,

and kneeled among icons at 11, bloodshot.

my eyes aren’t the 60s’, they’re more of a 40s’ or 30s’.

i wanna be loved by you, just you, nobody else,

but we’re thirty years apart, i’m a match, i’m hungry, i’m thirsty,

i’ve got no castle, nor diamond, nor pink in the shelves.

i’d be one of the five millions, you’d probably walk through my bones

hand in hand in gloves with marilyn and margaret,

listening to the old jazz of 30s and suppose

that at that time people lived much better,

better, better.