I’m sick of this infatuation —
I want daily copulation . . .
At least a little reciprocation —
No more unrequited love.

No more midnight masturbation —
No more self-gratification,
Like autoerotic asphyxiation . . .
And anything else that brings elation,
     exhilaration,
     excitation,
     exaltation,
     intoxication,
     inebriation,
     fascination,
     stimulation —
But never, however, satiation. . . .

I’ve loved you since I was a fetus —
Before my parents named me Cletus,
Before I even had a penis . . .
I swore nothing would come between us.

But over time, the truth be told,
One-sided love gets rather old.
I’m just a fool who loves fool’s gold
(Since I’m obviously not in love with you per se
     but merely an idealized fantasy of you —
     a chimerical mental representation,
     a phantasmagorical Vorstellung —
     that bears no resemblance whatsoever to reality).

I don’t need infatuation —
I need daily copulation.
How ’bout a little reciprocation?
Fuck this unrequited love.

No more midday masturbation —
No more self-gratification,
Like autoerotic asphyxiation . . .
And everything else that brings elation,
     intensification of exhilaration,
     amplification of excitation,
     prolongation of exaltation,
     provocation of intoxication,
     perpetuation of inebriation,
     fomentation of fascination,
     luxuriation in liberation,
     recreation with lubrication,
     variegation of stimulation —
Never, however, finding satiation . . .
Always finding only flustered frustration,
Which can only lead to self-flagellation
And floccinaucinihilipilification.

I be from Mars and you be from Venus —
You be named Bobbie Jo, I be named Cletus . . .
But I still want nothing to come between us
(Except, of course, my average penis).