Call me Crazy

I’d like to put on old-fashioned dark-red matte lipstick and a small black beret; light a cigarette and walk into a narrow spotlight on a tiny, dark stage. Dust-motes playing up and down the beam – I’d turn a little, look over the heads of the small audience and say:
“Achtung, baby”.

No – here’s what I’d really say:

“So… you’ve come to hear about love, right?
What kind of love?

The “are you here on your own, baby,
Would you like to come home, baby?”
kind of love?

“Is that card you’ve got GOLD, baby?
Well, I sure am SOLD, baby!”
kind of love?

“As long as you do what you should, baby,
As long as it feels good, baby”
kind of love

“We’ll see how we go, baby,
I don’t really know, baby”
kind of love

“Mine’s the only face you’d better see, baby –
It’s only all about me, baby”
kind of love

The “stick with me while it unfolds, baby,
Together we’ll grow old, baby”
kind of love?

(Joanne, 2013)


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