Only in novels

All this is, is just a song that goes like this
and it goes on and on and on and on

you can kiss the pope, you can pass the pipe
you can pray for praying sake,
but all it adds up to is your life
when you're 64 the pussy play declines
trembling hands on dried-up
flowers are not ideal for Valentines

modern life's a bore, everything's defined
polka-dotted, plastic wrapped
face to face till it's phased out
we can ask for more, by not asking at all
let's forget how it is done and
try and fail till it's a farce

she said, fuck me like a poet,
like someone tasting wine
there's no love without some smut,
so take the raw with the refined
we can stay indoors, just let the world go by
there's nothing there we haven't seen
and if there is then that's alright
now hold that thought,
through the night, alright?