Hypochondriacs

well, you and my mother are both hypochondriacs
except that you're terribly sick and she's sickeningly terrible
with reprieve, however, i love her you know; the both of them
love their greens, to give or just to save…i'd have it either way.

so some solutions seem sorry since she said so long
like livid lemons leaving literate limeys to sing loving songs
a planned walk to pry you
and to throw lust at your cool thing
though you can't talk like i do,
and i know just what you're doing.

a venomous moonshine that casts all its glare
upon every lover too lonely and scared
to love like a fool in the den of a lion
a necklace of meat, with a wood stool to try and
defend a heart in repair -- stayed jaded, so how
could it care to have faded?
i'm not buying it. you're not crying enough!
i'm not drying up…you pay attention too much!
to lay without tension and such! now you allow
it inside, and with pride for your good,
understood? there's no if, ands, or buts, or an
iffy butt and so what if originally you were
supposed to have met me beneath mistletoe?
then, mama, where would you go?
well, mama, then let me know.
just waiting for my sentencing
as different as a glass of water