you understand me, baby
Holy Bajeebers, baby, I blow my top with joy when I consider that you—out of the THREE BILLION VAGINAS which smear their twat slime over this earth like so many unique, cuddly snails—are the only one who TRULY understands my soul and knows the "real me" as I really am.
Oh, sure, I act like Mr. Good Time Charlie and put on a happy face and toss anonymous women up and down on my hobby horse like I'm running a day-care center, but like Smokey Robinson sang, it's easy to trace the tracks of my tears...or was it the tears of a clown? Did you know he had an alleged crack habit during the '80s? Doesn't that make his name "Smokey" really funny? Did you know that Bob Dylan once called him the greatest poet in the English language? Isn't it great that a crackhead named "Smokey" is our greatest poet?
These other girls, darling, they don't EXPERIENCE me way down deep to the ocean floor like you do. I don't taste nearly as zesty to them, nor do I smell as pungent. My balls don't hang nearly as low, nor does my cock push in nearly as hard on their kidneys.
They don't see the loneliness like you do...the sad, tragic clown who weeps over his Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey and decides he'd rather masturbate than make an effort to look nice and answer his cell phone once in a while.
They don't see the tenderness, the hurt little boy done wrong by so many women, the sad, wizened man betrayed and crushed by his own doomed quest for love.
They don't know what's best for me like you do.
Really, it's a miracle I haven't killed you.
