[bowl of oranges]

Perhaps with a little imagination, i'd hide beneath the floorboards.

I'm afraid i've never been a fan
of your uncautious style,
the one in which you'll gladly tear me down.
Perhaps with a little imagination
i'd hide beneath the floorboards,
amongst the dirt
where i'd fit in.
You always told me i was dirt.

But it's quite a task to resist such a face,
yours is one of such beauty.
So no matter what you do,
you captivate me.
Your look could melt a winters snowdrift.
If only you had a touch to match,
It could help me overcome that awful tone.
But you insist.

You insist upon your heavy hand,
And that's a weight i'll refuse to bear.
But you'll weave, relentless,
as a stream from it's mountain roots.
Yet you'll never remain a stream.
You'll burst your banks,
And your flood will swell.

I'll make sure i'll build my heart upon stilts,
so as not to succumb to your tyrannical affection.