Why call you me your love? I hate it.
Society laminated me with custom and curse.
I am only an ashtray to your emotions
Climbing this weighing machine
You push and press
And always expect your image to come out.

You need to recall a damp diaphanous dame
Spiralling out of surf to buy soap;
A cute belle drawing her hand
Down the cheeks of a guy to buy a shaving cream.
From bread to bed
From ass-wear to apparel
You subject yourself to the Freudian commercials.
Yet
When you see through the gory hole of ‘amneo centesis’
You press SOS signal if my image is coming out.
Why call you me your love?
I hate it. I hate it to the hilt.