I'm made up of instincts,
none of which are too keen.
But i get by with these high cheek bones,
little faith in people,
or a higher being.
I'm a man with desires
and if I told you any different, I'd be a liar.
As hard as I've tried I've found
I can't deny myself those things that I want.
As last night turns into this morning,
buried in your blankets, left for dead,
my heart beating in my head.
I lie still, pretending i'm asleep.
And I watch you put your clothes on for me,
a local pharmacist and his wife,
and I'm convinced after your performance
that this world is too big for us,
and our stupid instincts,
and our stupid desires.

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