| Stalker's my whole style, | |
| and if I get caught, I'll | |
| deny, deny, deny. | |
| Today you're twenty-five | |
| I made you something fine, | |
| it's in the palm of my new hand. | |
| It's out: you're mostly | |
| what I think about, and | |
| I'm proud, I've been coasting | |
| on this single's route. | |
| But I still hear your name | |
| in wedding bells. | |
| Will I look better or | |
| will I look the same | |
| rotting in hell? | |
| You're the only | |
| proper noun I need. Hurry, | |
| My copper crown's gone green. | |
| Pull me out of this tree; | |
| I'm stuck up a branch waiting, | |
| clearly caught between | |
| two things unclear to me: | |
| Are you a female young messiah | |
| for a stowaways in dugouts? And | |
| are you what church-folk | |
| mean by 'The Good News', | |
| pulling plastic bags off heads? | |
| Or are you giving me a | |
| dirty look in the rear view, | |
| clicking the button | |
| on your U'Haul pen? | |
| Don't pretend you didn't | |
| see me coming 'round the bend, | |
| on my fixie with the chopped | |
| horns turned in, trailing | |
| behind your biodiesel Benz. | |
| Stalker's my whole style, | |
| and if I get caught, I'll | |
| deny, deny, deny. | |
| '25' Carved with a butter knife | |
| on the palm of my new hand. | |
| It's out: you're mostly | |
| what I think about. |
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