You adore the idea of this thing called love,
Kisses and romance I'm just so sick of.
I believe love is an infection, something caught a virus,
Like your favorite flower, for instance like mine an iris,
Pretty in the ground, but after it’s picked will wilt and die,
Like love you adore the idea, but in the end you cry.
After infected with this horrible hallmark disease,
You'll smile but wait remember it's a temporary tease,
As soon as it settles it, it takes over and will spread,
When taken over you'll do things and lose your head.
You'll do things you never dreamt you'd do,
The wasted time and don't forget bills you'll accrue.
In the end you will sit there like that picked iris,
Heart wilted bank account drained nothing but a virus.

March 2008 (Dedicated to Vernon Burchett)