It Isn't To Launder My Clothes Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

You're my liberator, honey.
Your love is white-painted gold.
I'm shallow, but you, you're already
Keeping me from getting cold
Keeping me from drinking moonshine
Honey, the world's got me misdiagnosed.

If I invite an angel back home
It won't be to do my dirty dishes.
Or launder my clothes because I can do my own.
It won't be for just any coexistence.
Honey, I'd rather live my life alone.

In disgrace, with a smile on my sinful face.
Then, share with you anything fictitious.
You're my liberator, honey.
With two hands to share and hold
I want to feel and uncover every fold.

I'm shallow, but you, you're already
Keeping me from getting miserably cold
Oh, and your love is white-painted gold.
Every night, when I invite you back to my home.
It isn't to launder my clothes, because I can do my own.

And it isn't a form of coexistence.
My liberating honey,
Because I'd rather not live my life alone.
Drinking moonshine to keep out the cold
Then to forget your love's white painted gold.