Pretty-eyed failures, sharp- tongued and big boned.
Six feet of delicious hopelessness, you know,
the wish-upon-a-star-but -never-get-your-hopes-up. disposition.

By far, these are the best kind.

The boys that give more than they get, poets and painters who search for God on the roofs of their suburban homes,drink Chai and apologize when they laugh too loud.
The types with no experience, who let you call them by nonsensical names.

Yes, these are the easiest to enrapture. And I know, that's exactly what you do. I watch you work the room, snake eyed and devil-tailed, past me and into your scene. Is this your twist on my femme fatale? Because I'll tell you, this is the kind of manipulative thing you'd do. (You're the tie-your-wrists-behind-your-back guy, cruel and indecisive, the kind to electrocute, just to see bodies writhe)
Trust me, I know how you boys hold your grudges. It's been three days and your still angry, letting jealousy get the better of you. But you're hiding it better than I thought you would, because you don't even dance like that with me.

So I grab the keys and slam the door (not like anyone will hear over the bass) behind me, and take a joy ride in your Porsche.

We'll see who's taking you home tonight.