I love you, dying man under a train,
Your pretty, pretty face bored with ennui.
I won't think: “Can I save you from this dream?”
My love is like a moth flying near flame.
I love you bug that always goes upside-down.
I will keep righting you and righting you.
You are like my pretty, pretty beau.
Who thinks of his demise at slightest let down.
He has died, but maybe he was right.
Maybe things should be perfect beyond belief:
Gorge on ambrosia and filet mignon,
While climaxing wonderfully all day and night.
Yes, everything should be perfect beyond belief.
Or maybe not being bothered easily is key.
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